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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343488">Pride Is Not The Word</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/pseuds/Haicrescendo'>Haicrescendo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Teruko takes one look at Zuko and goes: anyone gonna lovingly bully that?, Zuko’s love of books is a hill I die on, navigating abuse, now with added exploration of uncle’s trauma, oops it’s definitely child abuse, piandao as a reluctant coparent, showing care through food, tags to be added as applicable, the jury is still out, the softest snarliest nerd baby, the staff of the Jasmine Dragon is ride or die, zuko hurts everyone’s feelings simply by being himself, zuko may or may not have accidentally killed a man?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:20:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>35,126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haicrescendo/pseuds/Haicrescendo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[Iroh’s phone rings. </p><p>He doesn’t recognize the number but he answers anyway.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>For a few moments all Iroh can hear is shallow, raggedy breathing on the other end of the line. Then finally, he can hear a hoarse, familiar voice that he hasn’t heard in years.</p><p>“Uncle Iroh? I need your help. Can you...can you come pick me up?”]</p><p>Or,</p><p>Iroh wasn’t prepared for another child, but the universe hasn’t ever cared about that.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iroh &amp; Zuko (Avatar)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Koi’s atla fic recs, My Favorite Atla Fics, The Piandao Library, best of avatar, iroh &amp; zuko fics, rel'isé, zuko best boi</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic has been in process for a very, very long time. It’s also very, very important to me. Please regard me kindly.</p><p>If you liked this, please leave a comment and let me know. If you’d rather screech at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>
Iroh’s phone rings. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t recognize the number but he answers anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p> </p><p>For a few moments all Iroh can hear is shallow, raggedy breathing on the other end of the line. Then finally, he can hear a hoarse, familiar voice that he hasn’t heard in <em> years. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Uncle Iroh? I need your help. Can you...can you come pick me up?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh hasn’t seen his nephew since his sister-in-law passed away and his brother bundled up his children, changed his number, and left. He regrets a lot of things but losing track of those two kids is at the top of the list, right underneath Lu Ten, who he still can’t talk about.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t seen Zuko in years, but that doesn’t stop him from bolting out of his house like it’s on fire, fumbling with his keys, and racing for the address that Zuko gave him.</p><p> </p><p>Across town. </p><p> </p><p>He’s been so close, and Iroh never knew.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t know what he expects when he parks (illegally) on the side of the road, and this is where Zuko told him to go, but all that’s here is a dingy alley with some trash cans and an atmosphere of abandonment.</p><p> </p><p>And also a kid, he realizes belatedly, tall and gangly and with his hood up over his face, crouching next to the trash cans. Zuko looks…</p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks <em> terrible.</em></p><p> </p><p>If Iroh hadn’t been looking for a child he never would have seen him, and under any other circumstances he never would have recognized Zuko. The boy still has dark hair and the gold eyes that run in their family, but that’s where the similarities end with the boy in Iroh’s memories.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he breathes quietly, “I’m here, Zuko.”</p><p> </p><p>The boy looks up and looks, for just a second, very much like the feral cat that lived under Iroh’s front porch for months until it had disappeared and not come back. Despite being the one who had called for help in the first place, Zuko doesn’t approach, just stares at Iroh with that wide-eyed, disbelieving look.</p><p> </p><p>“You...you came,” he says finally. His voice is raspy, like he’s either been screaming or silent for too long.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course I came. You called for me.” </p><p> </p><p>Iroh takes a step closer and immediately stops, because Zuko skitters backwards, plastering himself against the wall of the alley.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” Iroh says, eyeing Zuko’s defensive posture and seeing how his hands shake. Zuko shoves them into his pockets. “It’s late and it’s dark. Come with me, please? I’m parked right here.” The boy doesn’t move. “I’m going to go get in the car. I’m not going to go anywhere, I’ll just wait for you. You can follow me.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh walks back to his car and gets back into the driver's seat, and waits. For a good while, he thinks that he’s made a mistake in backing off.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko called him for <em> help.</em></p><p> </p><p>But Iroh remembers that cat and remembers that it had disappeared after he’d made the mistake of trying to touch it. The moment his fingers had touched scruffy, ratty fur, the cat had yowled as if in pain and bolted, and that had been the last Iroh had seen of it.</p><p> </p><p>If his nephew is anything like that cat, pushing him will be a mistake.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a mistake that Iroh will not risk making.</p><p> </p><p>He sits in silence and waits for several minutes, and then in the side mirror he sees a gangly shadow approaching the car. Zuko opens the door on the passenger side and slides into the seat, immediately slumping forward and burying his face in his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh takes the time he has to get a better look at him now that he’s now shadowed away in an alley, and isn’t reassured at all. The boy’s rail thin and his clothes are a mess, too big and very ratty and a little stained, and he still won’t slide the hood off of his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he says, softly, “Please look at me. I want to help you.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko laughs—if it could be called a laugh at all, considering that it turns into something closer to a sob instead, and finally yanks his hood down. Iroh sees his face, unobscured for the first time, and audibly gasps. Zuko flinches hard but doesn’t look away, and glares as if daring Iroh to judge him.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh feels nothing even remotely in the ballpark of judgement—just heartbreak and a flicker, deep down, of <em> rage.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Who did that to your face?” He manages to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody,” Zuko says shortly. “It was an accident.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no way that something like that happens by accident. The scar covers nearly a quarter of the boy’s face, circles fully round his eye and stretches backward like the shape of the flame that made it. It’s an old mark but not <em> that </em> old. No kid, but especially not <em> this </em> kid, procures a mark like that by accident.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s hand is on the handle of the door, ready to bolt if he feels he needs to.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s head and heart scream for answers but he has the sense to squash them down.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s hand is on the handle of the door and Iroh knows, just from looking at him, that he <em> will </em> run if he gets pushed.</p><p> </p><p>So Iroh lets him, for the time being, keep his secrets for the sake of keeping him safe and here, in this car, with him.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh starts the car. The air conditioner turns on and despite that it’s a warm night, Zuko shivers and curls in on himself. Iroh doesn’t call attention to it but simply turns the air off and the heater on. He doesn’t ask Zuko any questions but wordlessly pulls into the drive-through of the closest MacDonalds on the way back to his home, orders a few cheeseburgers and some fries.</p><p> </p><p>He hands the bag over, and Zuko doesn’t touch it.</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Iroh says gently. “We still have a bit of a drive. You’ll feel better if you eat something.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh didn’t notice before but Zuko is clutching a threadbare backpack in a white-knuckled grip. It’s been duct-taped more than once. Zuko watches him suspiciously for a few moments more and then stuffs a hand into the bag to pull out a cheeseburger.</p><p> </p><p>He has a thousand questions and enjoys exactly none of them. </p><p> </p><p>He has a thousand questions, and every single one of them will keep for a night.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh is nothing if not patient and Zuko looks exhausted and worn out, like a particularly hard breeze will blow him over. He needs rest and Iroh needs a game plan, and he has a feeling that whatever answers Zuko has for him, he’s not going to like any of them.</p><p> </p><p>How did the boy get to this point? Why does he look like he’s been living in a ditch for a year instead of with his father and sister? What happened to his <em> face?</em></p><p> </p><p>Zuko nearly falls asleep in the car but doesn't, catches himself every single time he dozes off or leans for too long on the cool glass of the window, and it’s not long before Iroh is pulling into the driveway and putting the car into park. The fast food bag is a small crumpled ball in Zuko’s hands, and Iroh makes sure to get out of the car first.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko follows him warily, but unlike the feral cat, he walks inside when Iroh opens the door to let him in.</p><p> </p><p>He looks even worse in the light of the living room. </p><p> </p><p>“Upstairs and to the left is a guest room and attached bath,” Iroh tells him. “You’re welcome to sleep there. Or if you’d prefer the sofa—“</p><p> </p><p>Without a word, Zuko bolts up the stairs and Iroh hears a door slam.</p><p> </p><p>And then he’s left, very suddenly, alone in the middle of his living room, in his home that has been empty for a very long time. Iroh doesn’t know Zuko’s story, and while he’s eager to hear it, he has a distinct feeling that it doesn’t end with asking for a ride back to Ozai’s home. Iroh knows that he shouldn’t but mentally, he’s already making a list of things he’ll need to buy to properly accommodate a teenage boy.</p><p> </p><p>From upstairs, Iroh can hear water running, and allows himself to sit down on the sofa and rub his temples.</p><p> </p><p>The picture being painted for him is not a good one.</p><p> </p><p>None of Iroh’s things will fit Zuko even a little bit, so despite the sharp jab of pain in his heart, Iroh makes himself open up one of the sealed boxes in the closet, pulls out a few of Lu Ten’s old t-shirts and bottoms that can be tied, leaves them on the guest bed. Zuko’s brought his backpack into the bathroom with him.</p><p> </p><p>Is he afraid that Iroh’s going to take it, or is it simply something that he does without thinking?</p><p> </p><p>Iroh goes back downstairs and brews himself a cup of tea and pretends that he’s not listening intently for any noises coming from the room upstairs. The water shuts off and then there’s only silence. Iroh sips at his tea.</p><p> </p><p>The floorboards creak the tiniest bit and Iroh looks up, just in time to see Zuko poke his head into the kitchen. He hovers in the doorway, like he’s not sure he’s allowed in, until Iroh beckons him to sit. Lu Ten’s old t-shirt is big on him.</p><p> </p><p>“Come in, Zuko,” he says softly, “Sit down.” The boy sits and his hands twist anxiously in his lap. “You wouldn’t rather get some rest?”</p><p> </p><p>“...You have questions,” Zuko says, finally. He doesn’t look up, staring instead into Iroh’s teacup like it holds the secrets of the universe. His dark hair is damp and curling past his shoulders. “Answering them later won’t be any easier than it is now.” His voice is flat and toneless, like he expects nothing to come from this.</p><p> </p><p><em> Expect nothing and you can’t be disappointed </em>is what immediately comes to mind, and Iroh doesn’t have to know him well to know that logic. He pours a cup for his nephew and passes it across the table.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko holds it instead of drinking it.</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t be here long,” Zuko plows ahead before Iroh can ask a single question from his very long list, “I won’t be any trouble, I promise. Just until—until I can figure some stuff out, then I’ll be out of your hair—“</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” Iroh interrupts. He makes a point to soften his voice but Zuko flinches anyway. “You’re twelve years old. Where are you going to go?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll think of something!” Zuko sputters. “I’ve been <em> fine,</em> okay? I just…” he trails off, and Iroh eyeballs him.</p><p> </p><p>“How long have you been by yourself?” It’s the kindest way he knows how to ask, the only way he knows how without accusations or making assumptions. </p><p> </p><p>“A year. Ish. I think.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s your father?”</p><p> </p><p>“Home, probably,” Zuko replies, a surly note creeping into his voice. “Happy to be finally fuckin’ rid of of me.”</p><p> </p><p>“So where have you been staying?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko pointedly doesn’t answer, and that’s answer enough for Iroh. Somehow he’d known without even asking where Zuko had been staying and his nephew’s non-answer said all it needed to: Zuko had been staying nowhere. </p><p> </p><p>“Why did you call me? Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to help you in any way that I can. But we haven’t...you haven’t called since you moved.” And <em> that </em> hurts too, even though Iroh knows that the responsibility can’t possibly be put on a child. But he doesn’t understand why, of all people, Zuko would have called him. It’s unfathomable that there would be no one else. Surely there had been someone else. “Why me?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t…” Zuko fidgets in his chair and rotates his cup in front of him, just as he used to when he was little and put on the spot. “I couldn’t think of anyone else. And I remembered your phone number. It was the only one I could remember.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Iroh says softly. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know, I’ve been very...I’ve been very lonesome since the loss of my son. The house is too big for just myself.” He looks over across the table at Zuko wearing Lu Ten’s old clothes, and his heart hurts but not in the same way that he’d expected it to. He can see the dark mark of a bruise peeking out from the neckline of Zuko’s shirt and another on the other side coming out the bottom of his sleeve. </p><p> </p><p>It looks like a set of handprints. Iroh feels sick to his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to worry about leaving,” Iroh says. “Just...please be honest with me. Why are you here and not at home with your family?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s face shutters and for a while, Iroh thinks he’s not going to answer. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a surprise, then, when he finally speaks.</p><p> </p><p>“Father and I had a—a fight. He asked me to do something and I wouldn’t do it. So I left. He didn’t look for me, so I guess he couldn’t have cared that much.” He looks up and glares. “What’s it matter, anyway? I’m fine. I was <em> fine, </em>okay?!”</p><p> </p><p>Quick as a flash, Iroh reaches out and presses a fingertip into the blue-black mark on Zuko’s left arm. He doesn’t push down hard but the boy flinches anyway, recoiling back and nearly throwing himself out of the chair.</p><p> </p><p>“You may be many things but I very much doubt that you are <em> fine</em>,” Iroh says. His voice is harder than he means it to be. He can’t handle the look of hurt betrayal that washes over Zuko’s face, and he gets up, grabbing a bag of frozen vegetables out of the freezer. “You called me, Zuko, because you needed help. I want to help you in any way I can, but I can’t do that if you keep insisting that you’re fine. We both know that you are not. Show me, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s face goes surly but he obeys, pulling off Lu Ten’s too-big shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh was right and he hates it. A set of matching handprints wrap around Zuko’s upper arms and there’s a fresh, blackening bruise stretching over his collarbone, another blossoming vast and vivid over his ribs.</p><p> </p><p>The kid is a rainbow of injury.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you get those?”</p><p> </p><p>“Someone wanted somethin’ I didn’t wanna give ‘em. We had it out, I stole their phone and ran for it, called you. That’s it. Okay? That’s it.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh squashes down the roar of fury in his ears but can’t manage to keep the look off of his face well enough because Zuko pales and shoves his hands underneath the table. He’s very, very still and very, very quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh sips at his tea until he doesn’t hear the ocean in his ears. As he settles, so does his nephew. Zuko shrugs the shirt back on and thrusts the offered bag of frozen peas into it.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh spends a solid minute deep breathing until he can speak without shouting.</p><p> </p><p>“This is important, Zuko, and I need you to listen to me very carefully.” The boy looks up, his eyes huge and liquid gold. “I don’t want to hear anything about getting out of my hair again. Do you understand? I’ve missed you very much, and I’m very glad to see you, and I’d like for you to stay here.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh is, generally speaking, not a man of impulse. He thinks carefully and deliberately and doesn’t make decisions he hasn’t weighed out in his mind. He may have known Zuko at one point but he cannot say that he truly knows him now. It’s been such a long time and the boy who sits in front of him now is nothing like the cheerful child he remembers.</p><p> </p><p>The scar on his face does not help.</p><p> </p><p>But looking at him now, looking angry and wary and so very ready to make a run for it if he has to, Iroh could never turn him away. It’s clear that Zuko is desperate, at the end of his rope, and is out of options. Iroh may have been Zuko’s last resort but it’s just as clear that he was also his <em> only </em> resort.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh reaches across the table and touches his hand to the back of Zuko’s palm.</p><p> </p><p>“You always have a place here with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko does a good job of maintaining his flat expression until something in him cracks. His lower lip gives a stubborn tremble. He doesn’t cry but his eyes go wet and glassy, and when he drops his head into his arms on the table, the only sound that comes out of him is a gasping little whine like he’s forgotten how to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh desperately wants to hug him but doesn’t dare. </p><p> </p><p>He forces himself to stay where he is and lets Zuko ride out his feelings. The most he dares is to reach across the table and rub his hand over Zuko’s dark head—even that small touch makes him jerk. Zuko doesn’t rebuff him, however, just plasters himself to the table and lets it happen until gradually the horrible little smothered sobs settle into shakes.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re exhausted,” Iroh says softly. “I think you’ve had enough interrogation for one night. Go upstairs and get some sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko seems relieved to be released and heads for the stairs so fast that Iroh’s sure he’s going to just run for it like he did earlier—and then he stops abruptly. Zuko turns back to look Iroh in the eyes, twists his hands in the hem of his shirt, and fidgets.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” is what spills out of him in the end. “Thank you for answering. Thank you for coming. I—I didn’t think that you would, but I’m glad that you did.”</p><p> </p><p>And <em> then </em> he makes that run for it before Iroh can say a word.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh only hears him take a few stairs before it all slips into silence. He can, just barely if he really focuses, make it out when the door of the upstairs bedroom clicks shut.</p><p> </p><p>It’s then and only then that he lets himself drop his head into his hands and wonder what the hell he thinks he’s doing.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko had been expecting, maybe at <em> most</em>, a sofa for a day or so, and that was if he was lucky.</p><p> </p><p>To be entirely honest, Zuko doesn’t even remember calling Uncle Iroh. He remembers hands that wouldn’t stop <em> touching </em> and fighting tooth and nail to make them stop, and the next thing he knows, he’s coming back to his body behind a trash can in that alley being coaxed into a car by his uncle.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko sits down on the bed and buries his face in his hands, tries to stop shaking. To calm himself, he goes through the contents of his backpack: a few packets of dried ramen noodles—one of them half eaten, an extra shirt he’d swiped out of the donation bin a few weeks back, some bits and bobs that for some reason still have sentimental value, a knife...and the flash drive. The catalyst for all of this misery.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko rolls it between his fingers, just to confirm that it’s really there, and crawls under the bed to rip a small hole in the lining underneath, and slips the drive up into the box springs.</p><p> </p><p>For a good few minutes he just stays there, breathing hard into the carpet and hating how under the bed feels so much safer than being on top.</p><p> </p><p>He can do this.</p><p> </p><p>Worse comes to worst, he stays a day or two to get his shit together and then he bails and Uncle never has to see him again. Zuko knows better than to think, even for a second, that he’s safe. Safe gets ripped away in a heartbeat, every time, and he knows better than to trust in it. </p><p> </p><p>Safety isn’t a thing that ever lasts, not for him.</p><p> </p><p>This room is too big and too open, and Zuko wants to like it, but he hates it. It doesn’t matter if he likes it, it’s better than sleeping outside. </p><p> </p><p>Except that it’s not.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko tries his best. He crawls underneath the covers and wraps himself up like a burrito, but he can’t calm down. Anxiety buzzes hard underneath his skin.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t do this.</p><p> </p><p>If someone breaks in, or something happens and he needs to run, Zuko is absolutely screwed. So even though he’s sure that wearing shoes in bed is going to be frowned upon, he toes on his sneakers anyway and tries again.</p><p> </p><p>Still no good. </p><p> </p><p>He feels exposed and unprotected, even bundled up in blankets.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko eventually gets up and bodily shoves the bed flush into the corner of the room, getting back in and pressing his back against the wall.</p><p> </p><p>It’s weird to be comfortable, so weird it’s almost painful. Zuko’s body doesn’t remember what it feels like to not be fighting with his environment and it’s so much worse now. The air conditioning should be comfortable, the bed should be comfortable, being clean and properly dry for the first time in what feels like forever should be comfortable.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s...not.</p><p> </p><p>Stubbornly, Zuko closes his eyes and pulls the blankets tighter around himself.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he’ll <em> ever </em> fall asleep, but he does, eventually, wrapped up tightly and curled into the smallest ball he can manage. Zuko sleeps deeply, so deeply that he doesn’t wake when Iroh cracks the door to check in on him. He doesn’t so much as stir when the man approaches, reaching out a quiet hand to brush Zuko’s bangs out of his face to eyeball the scar stretching into his hairline.</p><p> </p><p>If he was awake, it would have made him uncomfortable to be the focus of such scrutiny.</p><p> </p><p>But Zuko is not awake enough to notice, much less be uncomfortable, and he keeps sleeping.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh closes the door behind him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for the amazing response on chapter one! Hopefully this fic continues to live up to your expectations. If you liked this chapter, please leave a comment and let me know!</p><p>If you’d rather scream at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>Zuko wakes up warm but in a good way. </p><p> </p><p>He’s comfortable and feels like he’s still wrapped up in blankets. His back doesn’t hurt and neither does his neck. He didn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to fight someone over his sleeping space, and he didn’t kick a trash can over in his sleep and scare the shit out of himself. </p><p> </p><p>He feels comfortable, but horrible. His stomach twists, and Zuko curls up into a tighter ball.</p><p> </p><p>If he doesn’t wake up, <em> really </em>wake up, he can’t be disappointed. </p><p> </p><p>If he doesn’t wake up, Zuko doesn’t have to come back to reality.</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly and with a fair bit of resentment, Zuko forces himself to open his eyes, resigned to have had a very nice dream...and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. Zuko’s not hunkered down in between a wall and his usual trash can barricade.</p><p> </p><p>He’s in bed, a <em> real </em> bed and not trash bags and some old towels. His entire body hurts but in the ‘got hurt’ way and not the ‘slept on a stupid fucking rock’ way. Zuko peers down his shirt to examine his bruises and winces. </p><p> </p><p>They have not improved with time. If anything, they’ve gotten worse. Zuko stares at the marks, blue-black-purple and wonders how deep down they go.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, good, you’re awake.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s brain ricochets straight into panic mode and he doesn’t even think at all before he’s recoiling backwards, slamming himself hard into the wall with a crash. Uncle Iroh takes a concerned step into the room, stretches out a hand.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not <em> afraid</em>, his body just does that sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.</p><p> </p><p>“...<em> Ow </em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> fine,</em>” Zuko grumbles. “You startled me, is all.”</p><p> </p><p>He’s not afraid. He’s <em> not</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He just doesn’t like being loomed over. Nobody likes that! Zuko untwists out of the blankets until he’s upright but still pushed into his corner.</p><p> </p><p>“You moved the—“ Uncle Iroh cuts himself off just as Zuko’s about to say something, probably something stupid. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it. Are you hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s <em> always </em> hungry, but knows better than to say anything about it. He’s not stupid, and stays silent even though it’s clear that Uncle Iroh expects some sort of answer. <em> Shit. </em></p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth and nothing comes out.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle Iroh’s face softens.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course you are,” he says gently, “And so am I. Breakfast first, and then we’ll talk about what needs to get done today.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh makes pancakes.</p><p> </p><p>It's a box mix, but that doesn’t matter to Iroh. It certainly doesn’t matter to Zuko, who inhales six of them plus the initial tester, and then immediately looks like he’s ready to go right back to bed. Looking at him, Iroh wants to let him.</p><p> </p><p>The boy looks exhausted still, despite sleeping well.</p><p> </p><p>“When you’re ready, we need to go out. You need clothes that fit you, Zuko.” </p><p> </p><p>And also because Iroh doesn’t think he has it in him to go into another of Lu Ten’s boxes. He can’t do it. It hurts more, though, to see the way that Zuko’s face flashes over in quiet panic and the way his fingers tangle in the hemline, like he thinks that Iroh is going to take it from him.</p><p> </p><p>“I...I can’t—“ Zuko starts to say and then cuts himself off. </p><p> </p><p>“Zuko.” Iroh pushes past the ache to reach across the table and taps the table in front of his nephew, hard and brisk to get his attention. “You need clothing that fits.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I just stay here?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t whine, not quite, but it’s clear that he’s unhappy. Whether he’s more anxious at the idea of going to a store or Iroh spending money on him is unclear.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know your sizes,” Iroh tells him. “We’ll get lunch afterwards.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s just eaten six decent pancakes and one funky, undercooked and simultaneously burned one, but lunch still manages to be a selling point for him. He still doesn’t look happy about it, but he doesn’t ask to stay home again.</p><p> </p><p>Frankly, if he’d fought it any harder, then Iroh probably would have given in.</p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless, he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko is...uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>It’s written all over his face and in the way he sticks closer to Iroh than he’s gotten this entire time. The mall was probably not the best place to bring him but it stands the best chance of having everything Zuko needs without making a lot of trips all over town.</p><p> </p><p>It’s clear that the crowds are causing him stress, though, and Zuko’s reaction to that stress is to walk so closely that Iroh’s tripping over him about every other step. </p><p> </p><p>Finally, Iroh stops. Zuko runs directly into his back.</p><p> </p><p>“Here,” he says, and pulls his wallet out of his pocket, handing it over to his nephew. Zuko stares at it, confused. </p><p> </p><p>“What…?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to leave you here,” Iroh tells him bluntly. “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t.” He hands him his keys as well. “Hold onto those, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t—“ Zuko looks trapped and cornered and panicky. Iroh has him sit down at a bench and crouches down to be able to look up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I will not leave you here, Zuko. If keeping those will make you feel better, then keep them until it’s time to go. I can’t go anywhere without them, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko frowns, but slips Iroh’s keys and wallet into his pockets.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t occur to Iroh, not even for a moment, that he could be making a mistake. Maybe someone else would consider it; it’s been <em> years </em> since Iroh could say that he really, truly knew Zuko, but nevertheless he knows, instinctively, that there’s no deceit in that boy. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long time since Iroh has needed to shop for a boy, and the selection is overwhelming. He enlists the help of an employee for sizing; Zuko flat out refuses to go into a fitting room or be touched enough to be measured but she eyeballs his size easily enough to give Iroh options.</p><p> </p><p>The more bags the two of them accumulate the more Zuko’s unhappy frown deepens, but it can’t be helped. It’s to both of their relief that Iroh can justify sitting down in the food court. He sends Zuko off to get plates of greasy, salt-laden mall food that will hopefully calm his nephew enough to have the conversation that Iroh needs to have with him.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko returns with a veritable mountain of noodles and bourbon chicken and pushes one of the plates across the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” he says quietly and without eye contact, “And for…” The boy makes an all-encompassing hand-wavy gesture at the bags lined up under the table.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Iroh says. </p><p> </p><p>He lets Zuko eat in peace for a good fifteen minutes, and then sets his utensils down.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he says softly, “You need to give me your father’s phone number.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko chokes on a noodle and sputters, coughing hard into his napkin. When he looks up, his eyes are huge and the naked fear written all over his face makes Iroh’s heart twist. The mark over his eyes is big and stark and impossible to ignore.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle, I—“</p><p> </p><p>“If you’re going to stay with me,” Iroh barrels on, “You need to go to school. You need to go to the doctor. I can’t enroll you without medical records, or your identification cards, or your birth certificate. If you got hurt, the hospital wouldn’t let me make any decisions for you.” Zuko’s mouth snaps shut. His hands shake. “I know that you’re afraid and I know that there’s things you’re not telling me about why you left home and would rather live on the street than go back. I know that something happened to you, bad enough that you called <em> me</em>, who you haven’t spoken to in years. And don’t get me wrong, I <em> want to know, </em>but I’d rather have your trust than your secrets.”</p><p> </p><p>He reaches across the table and covers the tops of Zuko’s trembling hands with his own. Zuko isn’t by any means a baby, but his hands still feel very small.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to protect you, Zuko, but you have to let me. Do you understand? Whatever you’re so afraid of, I will protect you, but I need to know what I’m dealing with.”</p><p> </p><p>“...He never even told anyone I was missing,” Zuko mumbles resentfully under his breath. It’s nice, Iroh thinks, to hear something come out of him that isn’t desolation, “I <em> checked</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s horrifying but not surprising, if Iroh’s suspicions are true.</p><p> </p><p>If Ozai knows that Zuko is afraid and has done something to warrant it, he’d likely do anything to cover his own tracks. The idea of anyone putting their hands on a child, theirs or otherwise, makes Iroh want to throw up all of that delicious mall food, but his brother? Ozai has always been cold and calculating and, above all, willing to do whatever he has to do to get what he wants.</p><p> </p><p>If he needed Zuko to be quiet and go away, he’d done everything he’d needed to.</p><p> </p><p>If it hadn’t been for that phone call, Zuko would still be unknown and invisible.</p><p> </p><p>“Look at me, please,” Iroh says.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks up.</p><p> </p><p>“If you give me your father’s phone number, I will not tell him where you are. I won’t do anything that could put you in danger. What about your sister? Is she in trouble?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko glares back down at the table.</p><p> </p><p>“She started going to fancy girl’s school a couple of years ago,” he mumbles, staring down at his hands, “Dad <em> loves </em> her. He wouldn't hurt her. She’s <em> perfect</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>That doesn’t mean anything, is what Iroh wants to say, but the words get stuck. </p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t missed the nasty implication in what Zuko’s just said: that Ozai loves his daughter and wouldn’t hurt her—unlike Zuko. At this point, Iroh very much doubts his brother’s ability to genuinely love <em> anyone</em>. It’s a relief that he doesn’t have to worry about his niece—at least for the time being. He knows the school that Zuko’s talking about.</p><p> </p><p>It’s expensive, exclusive, and year round. </p><p> </p><p>There’s <em> visiting weekends</em>.</p><p> </p><p>If Iroh knows his brother, then his style is solidly absentee with a side of oppressive, but at least if she’s there, then she’s not <em> here</em>. That means, at least, that for now he can focus on the kid he has here in front of him and not the little girl who was barely toddling the last time he saw her.</p><p> </p><p>Abruptly, Zuko pushes his plate away.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not hungry anymore. Can we just go back to your house?”</p><p> </p><p>The drive back is a silent one, and Zuko barely waits for Iroh to open the door before he’s making a run for the stairs.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh isn’t necessarily surprised to be having a quiet evening. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t hear a peep from upstairs, even when he fixes and announces dinner. Iroh eats by himself, cleans up by himself, and then settles down on the sofa to pick up where he left off in <em> Psychic Detective Of Ba Sing Se</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The illustrious detective and his best assistant, Bosco, have just found the murder victim when Iroh hears the very quiet creak of the stairs and padding feet on carpet. The footsteps stop right outside the door and don’t move any further.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh flips backwards to the previous chapter and pretends to keep reading, paying very close attention to his nephew in the hallway. He hears Zuko walk back to the stairs, get halfway up, and come back. For a minute or so, he paces.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh keeps his eyes firmly on his book, occasionally flipping a page.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko eventually peers into the living room. Iroh doesn’t look up at him. Zuko creeps into the living room, tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome. He eyes the cushion next to Iroh, considers it, and then thinks better of it. He glances back to the doorway, clearly tempted by the prospect of leaving. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, Zuko settles for standing in the middle of the room in anxious parade rest, hands clenched tightly behind his back.</p><p> </p><p>“He hit me.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh puts down his book.</p><p> </p><p>“He hit me,” Zuko repeats, slowly. “Not...it was different than usual, okay? I’m <em> always </em> getting in trouble, being stupid, and he used to just—it was trying to help me be better, when...you know, before.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a hole in Iroh’s heart. That hole grows larger with every word out of Zuko’s mouth until he thinks it’s going to swallow him entirely, cold and empty.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t notice that Iroh’s lost at sea. He touches a hand to his face, covers his left eye.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe...maybe it <em> was </em>an accident. I don’t—I don’t know. I didn’t stay long enough to find out.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>What did he do to you</em>?” Iroh doesn’t recognize his own voice and neither does Zuko, because he flinches hard and takes a large step backwards. Iroh closes his eyes and forces his voice to soften. “Zuko. I’m not angry with you. I’m not going to <em> hurt </em>you. Please tell me what he did.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko takes in a hard breath.</p><p> </p><p>He’s trying his best to look as big and tall as he can, but he’s so thin and scrawny and frightened that it doesn’t really work. Iroh’s heart hurts.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d. Um. I did bad on—on something that he told me to do.” Zuko says finally. “I had to tell him about it. He was—um. He was making tea. I told him I couldn't do it.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko goes silent.</p><p> </p><p>“And then what happened?”</p><p> </p><p>“Um.” Zuko audibly swallows, twists his hands behind his back. “He threw the kettle at me. The kettle missed but, um. The water didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>There isn’t a force on earth that could keep Iroh from bolting off the sofa and throwing his arms around Zuko, Zuko in the middle of the room looking like he’s ready for an execution. The boy goes stiff and Iroh can feel him trembling underneath his hands.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko relaxes the tiniest bit and allows his head to drop into Iroh’s shoulder and then goes rigid, shoves himself away, and then makes a full run for the kitchen. </p><p> </p><p>There’s the sound of a heave and Iroh can hear him throwing up into the sink.</p><p> </p><p>Retching mixes with sobs and Iroh approaches him carefully, reaches out to hold Zuko’s hair out of his face.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fuck.</em>” Zuko’s eyes are shut right but tears are spilling over and down his cheeks anyway. “<em>Fuck.</em>” Zuko slumps over and drops his whole head into the sink. He doesn’t throw up anymore but he doesn’t know how to stop crying, and he lets himself be pulled out of the sink and into Iroh’s arms.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how to stop shaking either. The plastic cup of water gets dropped so many times that Iroh eventually has to help him drink it.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so tired, Uncle,” he finally mumbles, dropping his name off of it for the first time since Iroh got that phone call, “I’m so <em> tired.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Gently, very gently, Iroh tugs his nephew up the stairs and back into the guest bedroom that he’s quickly beginning to think of as Zuko’s. It doesn’t even occur to him to be in pain to notice that Zuko’s still wearing Lu Ten’s clothes.</p><p> </p><p>This is something Iroh knows how to do</p><p> </p><p>Iroh knows how to comfort and soothe, and he’s <em> good </em>at it. It doesn’t take too much effort to get Zuko into bed and tuck the blankets around him. Zuko’s not crying, not exactly. He’s very still and very quiet and doesn’t make a sound, except for the tiny hiccupy gasps that keep ripping themselves out of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t wanna go back,” he whispers into the pillow he’s burying his face into, once his panic has ebbed enough for him to speak. Iroh sits on the edge of the bed, leans over him to curl a protective arm around his frame. “I don’t wanna go back there.”</p><p> </p><p>The cold in Iroh’s stomach thaws out and sublimates into a forest fire.</p><p> </p><p>“You will not have to,” he tells him, “So help me, you will not have to.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko slips into a wary, restless sleep, but Iroh knows better than to think that he’ll stay there.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh hates being right sometimes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The night before, Zuko had been so worn out and relieved to have a place to sleep that he didn’t have to fight for that he’d slept like that dead, dreamless and heavy. He’s had nightmares forever that only got worse when Mom died, which had tapered off throughout the past year when the need for survival had trumped his own guilt and shame. Uninterrupted sleep was a luxury Zuko had gotten used to not having.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko wakes himself up <em> screaming.</em></p><p> </p><p>Sometimes it’s Mom, and sometimes it’s Father, and sometimes it’s nameless, faceless hands that don’t listen when he shrieks <em> stop, I don’t have it, I don’t know what you want </em> (even though he <em> does</em>), but every time Zuko wakes up and his throat hurts and Uncle Iroh is there with water he doesn’t have to try and hold for himself. It’s the most solid, steady presence that Zuko can remember having in years.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want to be touched but he needs it <em> so badly</em>, and stops fighting when he wakes for the third time, exhausted and miserable, and Uncle is there <em> again</em>. Or still there. Maybe he never left. When Zuko wakes that third time he gives up on trying to act his age and curls his whole body around Uncle’s hip, allows himself to be scooped up and held like he’s very small.</p><p> </p><p>Even like this, Zuko still doesn’t feel safe.</p><p> </p><p>He feels less in danger, but he doesn’t feel <em> safe</em>. Zuko doesn’t even remember what that feels like. Maybe safety died with Mom.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he never had it in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle’s hands feel like the closest thing he knows right now.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s body hurts, and his head hurts, and his heart hurts. He’s crying a little, despite himself, quietly but obviously. Uncle’s making noises or maybe words but Zuko can’t understand what he’s saying over the noise of thunder and ocean that are drowning out everything else.</p><p> </p><p>It’s too much.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s too much?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a high-pitched keening sound, like a pained whine, and it takes Zuko too long to realize that it came from him.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Everything,</em>” is all he can say because it’s true. </p><p> </p><p>Being alone was too much, being here is too much. Zuko doesn’t know how to help himself and he doesn’t know how to let himself be helped. He doesn’t know <em> how.</em></p><p> </p><p>Zuko shoves himself away from Uncle Iroh and scrambles his way underneath the bed. He sticks his hands up inside the hole he made in the lining of the box springs, fishes out the flash drive that’s been burning a hole in his brain for a year, and crawls back onto the bed. </p><p> </p><p>He can’t speak as he hands it over.</p><p> </p><p><em>Fuck,</em> he doesn’t even know what’s on it that’s so much more important than he is.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s why I called you last night,” Zuko whispers. He’s still fucking <em> crying </em> and he doesn’t know how to stop. “One of Father’s work...people, <em> found </em> me and tried to convince me to give it to him. I took it when I left and it took him a year to realize it was missing.” And then he’s laughing, high and hysterical, through his own tears. “It took him a year! A goddamn year!”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle Iroh’s face is white with horror.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko wants to <em> die.</em></p><p> </p><p>This was a mistake, he realizes abruptly. A huge mistake, by bringing himself and his problems into the man’s home. If Zhao was willing to put his hands all over a fucking kid to do his father’s bidding, what would he do to <em> Uncle</em>?</p><p> </p><p>Zuko can’t breathe. Little white spots pop in the corner of his vision.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a shock to him, then, when he finds himself folded up into a hug, the sound of Uncle’s strong, steady heart a drumbeat in his ears.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re hyperventilating, Zuko. Breathe.”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle sounds so <em> worried</em>, Zuko thinks hysterically. Not breathing is fine. Air is overrated, anyway, because now he remembers the knife that had been at his throat and not just the hands. Now he remembers kicking and screaming his way loose, and the only thing in grabbing range had been a rock. Did Zuko kill a man? Was that what had happened?</p><p> </p><p>He can’t stop laughing.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t even know what it is!” He shrieks into Uncle Iroh’s face, hands gripping tightly in the collar of the man’s shirt and shaking him back and forth. “All this <em> shit </em> and <em> I don’t even know what it is</em>.” It’s not funny, not even a little bit, but all Zuko can do is laugh until he’s not, and he’s sobbing, helpless and desolate. </p><p> </p><p>All of his fight drains out of his body, and he sags against Uncle Iroh, tucks his face into the juncture of his neck and collarbone, and gives up. That’s it, that’s all he’s got.</p><p> </p><p>The rage is gone and the only thing left is quiet devastation.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t matter at all, does it? Everything Zuko’s done to try and save himself, it didn’t even matter.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t register being moved. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to know or care when Uncle Iroh tugs his blanket off the bed, carries Zuko downstairs like a baby, and encourages him to curl up on the couch with his head in his lap. The sleep that comes next is more like unconsciousness than anything else, and Zuko doesn’t notice when Uncle slips the flash drive into his laptop.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t notice any of that, but he manages to sleep the rest of the way through the night without a single dream.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all your beautiful comments on the last chapter! You’re all wonderful. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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Zuko wakes up, alone on the couch.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a surprise, again, and Zuko has to reorient himself and remember, bit by bit, that the previous day’s events aren’t a dream or a nightmare. He has to remind himself, before he even opens his eyes, that he’s not going to wake up and find himself back between the trash cans.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko holds upright, the blanket tucked around him slipping off of his shoulders to pool into his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck. <em> Fuck.</em></p><p> </p><p>He remembers giving Uncle the flash drive.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko flails once and falls off of the couch.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, you’re awake.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks up from where he’s on the floor, tangled up in his blanket. Uncle’s in the doorway to the kitchen, a spatula in his hand. Something’s cooking, and it smells really good.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle?” Zuko hates how tiny and lost that one word sounds coming out of him, but he doesn’t have the strength for more. He’s so <em> tired </em>. His body feels rested but his head hurts, like he’s been breathing water. Uncle’s watching him carefully, silently sizing him up, but when Zuko speaks, his whole face softens.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s <em> always </em> hungry.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a small mountain of scrambled eggs and bacon and buttered toast in the kitchen and Zuko demolishes two plates worth before Uncle even tries to talk to him.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to talk about last night?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want to talk about last night for as long as he lives. Breakfast sits in his stomach like a stone.</p><p> </p><p>“Want is probably too strong a word. <em> Can </em> we talk about it, please?”</p><p> </p><p>“...What’s there to talk about?” Zuko stares down at his empty plate.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle watches him with an inscrutable look on his face. Zuko’s sure that he’s going to push the matter but in the end, he lets it go. Zuko doesn’t want to know how bad he looks for that to happen.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you finished eating?”</p><p> </p><p>The food’s gone, so Zuko’s finished. He cocks his head in a question, and Uncle smiles at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Go get dressed, then. We’ve got to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“...Where are we going?”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle shows him the neatly folded apron that’s hanging over one of the empty chairs. It’s a deep, forest green with a white, stylized dragon wearing a flower crown on the front. In small, unobtrusive lettering reads <em> The Jasmine Dragon.</em></p><p> </p><p>“I need to go into the shop for a few hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“I could just stay here,” Zuko offers quietly. The idea of going back out in public makes him feel tense and queasy. All he wants to do right now is go back to bed and maybe never come out again. Somehow, he had the feeling that he won’t be allowed to do that.</p><p> </p><p>He’s right.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko had been too young, the last time he saw his uncle regularly, to really care about what the man did for a living. He remembers Father complaining, <em> a lot, </em>about his older brother squandering the family name and all that he’d been given, and he vaguely remembers Mom disagreeing with him. He remembers Lu Ten, smiling in pride, in an apron that matched Iroh’s.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle owns a tea shop a ten minute drive away from the house.</p><p> </p><p>It’s called <em> The Jasmine Dragon </em> and calling it a tea shop doesn’t seem to do it justice, not considering the bustle of people and the line out the door. Uncle side-eyes Zuko’s wary expression and hides a smile behind his hand.</p><p> </p><p>“We serve food, too,” he says without being asked, “This is what we call the brunch rush.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want to get out of the car but he follows Uncle in anyway, hovering closely enough that more than once, the man nearly trips over him. There’s a lot of people and Zuko doesn’t like crowds, anyway, but right now he really, <em> really </em> doesn’t like them. The idea of being bumped and touched and jostled makes his heart start going rabbit quick.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s on the brink of silently working himself up into a quiet panic when an arm wraps around his shoulders and holds. He looks up to see Uncle watching him, expression very kind.</p><p> </p><p>“Excuse us, pardon me, welcome to <em> The Jasmine Dragon</em>,” Uncle says cheerfully to waiting patrons, expertly maneuvering through them without so much as a brush of outside contact. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko stays coiled up with tension, anyway, and makes no move to step further away. He’s too old and too big to be clinging to him like a baby, but Zuko can’t make himself reject the comforting presence of that arm. </p><p> </p><p>What’s wrong with him?</p><p> </p><p>He should be happy to be here, happy to be safe and happy to feel cared for for the first time in over a year. Instead, all Zuko feels is a bone-deep terror that numbs his brain to high pitched buzzing and a compulsive need to not be left alone with all these people.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not a <em> baby</em>, but he finds himself quaking anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to go inside, but he’s more afraid of being left behind, and follows Uncle inside anyway.</p><p> </p><p>They finally get through the doors. It’s less crushing inside; still crowded but at least people are seated instead of milling about. The insides are bright and airy, and when Zuko breathes in he can smell something sweet and flowery. On one side is a counter displaying a variety of tea canisters, all printed with the same label: a dragon in a flower crown.</p><p> </p><p>“We produce almost all of our own blends,” Uncle offers when Zuko looks for a little too long, “They're quite popular. Do you like tea, Zuko? You used to.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko shrugs and determinedly does not think about what a kettle flying towards his face looks like. Like or dislike doesn’t mean anything anymore. If Uncle wants him to like tea, Zuko’s sure that he can like it.</p><p> </p><p>...Zuko is <em> abysmal </em> at making tea, as it turns out, and he’s sure that Uncle’s upset with him about it. He tries really hard, but he doesn’t understand how Uncle can tell when water’s ready, so he just boils it. Then, the kettle starts whistling, and he doesn’t know how he ends up whiting out and plastered up against the wall. Zuko tries <em> so hard </em> but Uncle still takes one look at his face and doesn’t ask him to try again, even though Zuko would if he’d just <em> ask</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He has to be good at something. Even being <em> okay </em> at something would be better than nothing, better than this. The bare minimum: just be helpful, <em> for once,</em> instead of being helpless.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle’s doing so much for him by just keeping him around; when’s he going to get sick of Zuko being terrible at everything he does? Where’s the breaking point? Where’s the line get drawn? Zuko thought he knew where Father’s line had been, and he had been wrong. He’s not taking his chances this time.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s eyes burn and he scrubs at them with a hand when Uncle Iroh turns his back. He doesn’t notice the way that the man pulls in a quick, shaky breath before recovering his composure, making sure to wipe the horror off his face before turning back to face his nephew.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, don’t worry about it,” he says gently, and guides Zuko to the other end of the shop that has a separate counter. “Can I introduce you to someone?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t think he has all that much choice in the matter, so he says nothing in protest and follows him past the counter, through the door to what turns out to be a full kitchen, and into the presence of the tallest man he’s ever seen. Zuko definitely isn’t hiding behind his uncle but he’s also definitely not trying to call attention to himself, either.</p><p> </p><p>“Look who finally decided to show back up to work,” the giant grumbles and sets down the bowl he’s whisking. “Teruko thought that you were never coming back. Set up a betting pool for who was going to get your job and everything.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko waits on bated breath to see how Uncle Iroh is going to react to that. He knows how Father would take a remark like that.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, Iroh just chuckles. </p><p> </p><p>“Good to know that I can rely on someone to keep the place going, should I meet an untimely demise.”</p><p> </p><p>The giant man shifts his attention from Uncle to Zuko, who covers up his trepidation by glaring up at him as hard as he can.</p><p> </p><p>“And who’s this?”</p><p> </p><p>“This is my nephew, Zuko. He’s going to be staying with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Aren’t kids supposed to be in school?”</p><p> </p><p>“Summer break,” Uncle points out mildly, “Zuko, this is Piandao. He’s in charge of all the food and holds a stake in the company shares.” </p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not stupid—he knows what that means. Holding a stake in the shares means that this man isn’t just staff, but a partial owner. A business partner. It means that Uncle knows him well. </p><p> </p><p>It means that if Uncle has to take sides, Zuko knows exactly whose side he’s going to take.</p><p> </p><p>He glares a little harder, and it slips off of his face when Uncle presses a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes him forward.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not ready for tea making or dealing with customers,” Uncle says, and Zuko’s doesn’t understand how he can say something like that and still sound so kind, when all Zuko’s managed to do is be an embarrassment. “Maybe you could find him something to do in the kitchen with you.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko whips around to stare at Uncle in alarm. He doesn’t want to be left here with this guy. He doesn’t want to be here at all. </p><p> </p><p>His only saving grace is that there’s no way in hell that this giant man is going to agree to Uncle’s suggestion. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who wants to spend any time around kids and he definitely won’t want to spend any time with Zuko. That’s fine, because Zuko doesn’t want to spend any time with him either.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, I can put him to work.”</p><p> </p><p>“But I—“ Zuko stammers, distress overriding his determination to be inconspicuous and to pretend that he’s invisible, “I don’t—“</p><p> </p><p>A gentle hand lands on the top of his head and ruffles his hair.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” Uncle interrupts him, his voice soft. “I know that Piandao might look scary but—“</p><p> </p><p>“I ain’t afraid of him!” Zuko spits, “I ain’t afraid of anybody.”</p><p> </p><p>“—but his bark is worse than his bite.” Uncle keeps talking as if Zuko’s said nothing, “I’ll be right across the shop, doing some of the brewing. I won’t leave without you. You’ll be <em> fine </em>.” He turns to Piandao. “If one looks out the kitchen window, it’s easy to see out to the brewing stations, yes?”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao furrows his brows but nods. He looks like he has something to say but eyeballs Zuko and changes his mind.</p><p> </p><p>“If you need me, come find me. Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko nods but makes a promise to himself that he definitely <em> will not do that</em>. He’s not a baby. He can work in a kitchen. He’s not <em> stupid. </em></p><p> </p><p>Zuko will do whatever he needs to do to not learn where exactly Uncle’s line in the sand gets drawn.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh leaves, leaving Zuko alone in the kitchen with Piandao. Piandao stares at Zuko, and Zuko stares right back. </p><p> </p><p>Piandao raises an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko crosses his arms over his chest and glares again. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s a serious face. Is that the only one you know how to make?” The man asks with more curiosity than the anger that Zuko expects. Zuko doesn’t dare answer him. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s pretty sure that Uncle wouldn’t let someone whack him around in public, but Uncle’s not here.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle’s <em> gone. </em>Uncle <em> left him here</em>. It doesn’t occur to him to remember, even a little bit, about what Uncle said about the kitchen window. It doesn’t occur to him that it’s stupid to be so afraid of everything, that it’s even stupider to assume that, like some dumb baby, that because Uncle’s not in sight that that means he’s gone and never coming back.</p><p> </p><p>(Object permanence can be unlearned, apparently, in situations of great stress. Zuko will be embarrassed about this later. Now is not that time.)</p><p> </p><p>Piandao is <em> huge, </em> and Zuko is absolutely terrified of him, and backs up until the small of his back hits the edge of the counter. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko can't breathe.</p><p> </p><p>And then there’s a noise of surprise that he can’t really hear underneath the water in his brain, and the rattling of a box, and then something sweet is being shoved into his mouth. Zuko sputters for a moment until he starts chewing and realizes that it’s a cookie and that all he can taste is peanut butter and brown sugar and sea salt. Zuko hasn’t eaten a cookie in over a year, and he’s pretty sure that any kind of cookie would taste good, but this is a <em> really </em> good one.</p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly and without asking if he wants another, Piandao hands him another out of the airtight plastic bin they’re being stored in.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko would be stupid not to eat that one too.</p><p> </p><p>“Want to learn how to make them?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko is at least better at baking cookies than he is at making tea.</p><p> </p><p>Cookie dough, at least, has never directly led to his pain, and Zuko finds that he’s good at measuring and good at stirring, if Piandao’s impressed expression and quietly mumbled <em> good lord </em> are to be believed.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s less good at cracking eggs.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to whack it on the side of the bowl like he saw on a cooking show once, but he hits it too hard, and the whole thing slips out of his hands and plops into the bowl, studding the mix of peanut butter and sugar and flour with eggshell. Zuko stares into the bowl, mortified. From a good three feet away (the closest, it turns out, that Piandao can stand to him without Zuko shutting down and glaring at him), Piandao stares into it with him.</p><p> </p><p>“...Wow,” the man says, “Couldn’t have planned that better if you tried.” He reaches out a hand. </p><p> </p><p>In retrospect, it’s clear that he’s reaching for the bowl and not for Zuko, but at that moment, it doesn’t matter at all.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko bolts out of the kitchen and across the tea shop, nearly tripping up at least three waitstaff on his way. It’s easy to find Uncle Iroh because he’s in the middle of everything: talking to an old man here, flirting with someone’s mother there, offering extra honey to little kids. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s suddenly so relieved that he doesn’t have room to put it.</p><p> </p><p>“...Um.”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle looks up with a cheerful smile, but whatever he sees on Zuko’s face is enough to have him crossing the shop and meeting Zuko halfway. Uncle stops but Zuko doesn’t, lets himself crash into the man’s chest and pretend that it was an accident.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not an accident, and they both know it.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s heart won’t slow down and he twists at the sides of Uncle’s apron between his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s wrong, Zuko?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko can’t say it. He suddenly feels too stupid to even be able to live with himself, and ducks his face to avoid the looks of curiosity he’s getting. He can hear the sound of slow, heavy footsteps behind him, and can’t keep the full body flinch to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle gives his shoulders a squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>“Everything okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle’s question isn’t directed to Zuko but to the huge, towering man behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” Piandao rumbles, “Kid broke an egg too hard, and I think I stressed him out.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao doesn’t sound mad, but Zuko doesn’t trust it for shit. <em> Lots </em> of people don’t sound mad when they are, and Zuko’s the one who ends up regretting it. Uncle’s arm tightens a little around him.</p><p> </p><p>“Give us a minute, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao leaves.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko relaxes minutely.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is fine and says so, and it’s a lie.</p><p> </p><p>“Piandao might be big, but he won’t hurt you. You know that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko says that he knows, and it’s a lie.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> fine</em>,” Zuko insists. “I just wanted to make sure you were still here.”</p><p> </p><p>“And I am. I already told you, I’m not going anywhere without you.” Uncle Iroh’s eyes are soft, but his face looks pained. Zuko makes a promise to himself that he’s not going to do this again. He doesn’t want to be worried about.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want to be anything’d, except for maybe ignored.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think that you can go back and help finish your cookies?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko blinks in confusion. Nobody said anything about cookies at all. He entertains the idea that maybe Uncle Iroh is a mind-reader, until the man reaches out and wipes a smudge of peanut butter off of his cheek. Zuko wants to do what he says—he’s not a <em> baby, </em>but he hesitates a beat too long.</p><p> </p><p>“I know that it’s hard, Zuko, but you’re going to have to trust that I won’t leave you with someone who will hurt you. I’m not stupid enough to think that you believe me, but this is where it starts.” Uncle holds Zuko by the shoulders and squeezes firmly. “If you need me, come find me. I’m <em>right</em> <em>here</em>. So go.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko goes.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao’s waiting for him in the kitchen and Zuko waits to hear something, anything, about what just happened. He’s ready and bracing for it, too, arms crossed hard over his chest, but it never comes. Instead, the man hands him the part of an eggshell that didn’t shatter.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, use this to fish out the pieces you can get,” he says. “It’s easier to scoop out shell with shell. Any bits you miss won’t hurt anyone—the only person who’s gonna eat these is you and your uncle and maybe me. We’ll just call it a little extra texture.”</p><p> </p><p>Not that anyone at home would ever have deigned to make cookies—not since Mama died, anyway, but if someone <em> did </em> and he messed them up, Zuko knows that it all would have ended up in the garbage with no do-overs. And certainly no one would have told him how to fix it.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko stares at him, leery, and Piandao firmly ignores him. Being ignored feels better than scrutiny, and he relaxes the tiniest bit before leaning over the bowl and scooping out all the bits of shell he can find. He knows that he misses some but he doesn’t see them, and they get mixed in with the spoon anyway. </p><p> </p><p>It’s satisfying to just absolutely annihilate an entire jar of peanut butter into something that looks like homogeneous dough and smells amazing. Piandao rifles through a stack of baking sheets and while he’s not looking, Zuko sticks his hand into the bowl and eats a solid finger of cookie dough. The tray gets a generous coating of cooking spray, and spoonfuls of dough of varying, inconsistent sizes get lined up onto it, pressed down with a fork, and sprinkled with sea salt.</p><p> </p><p>They’re being put into the oven when a young woman pokes her head into the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, do we have any more—shit, who’s the brat?”</p><p> </p><p>“Boss’s kid; don’t swear or he’ll pick up bad habits,” Piandao replies without missing a beat, even when Zuko bristles like an offended kitten at being spoken over but also at the assumption that he doesn’t know enough profanity already.</p><p> </p><p>“I already know—“</p><p> </p><p>“<em>He’ll pick up bad habits.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Does the boss’s kid have a name or do I get to name him myself?” The girl asks. It sounds like she’s asking Piandao, but she looks at Zuko when she says it. He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to react to her, so he glares at her too for good measure, just because.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m Zuko,” he says.</p><p> </p><p>The woman grins at him. She’s older than him but way younger than Uncle or Piandao and her apron is flecked with spots of tea. Her name tag says <em> Teruko</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re an ornery little thing, aren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>You’re </em>ornery!” Zuko snaps back, “And I’m not little.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re, like, six!”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> twelve</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s only two six year olds, little man.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not <em> little</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry to tell you, but whoever fed you that line was a liar.” Teruko looks Zuko up and down, from the top of his messy, rumpled hair that Uncle had attempted to braid that morning down to the brand new sneakers on his feet. “I’m almost <em> four </em>six-year-olds.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao sighs and rubs at his temples.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Children</em>,” he grumbles, “Enough. Teruko, stop provoking the brat because you think it’s fun. Brat, stop picking fights you can’t win.”</p><p> </p><p>“But it’s <em> so </em> fun!” Teruko takes a step towards Zuko, then another. She’s not particularly tall but somehow manages to have a good two heads on him in height. The messy bun on top of her head adds an extra few inches. She sticks out her hand. “Put ‘er there, boss’s kid.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko gives her hand a suspicious stare but when it becomes clear that she won’t give up, he reaches out to shake it. Warm fingers curl around his and squeeze, less than a shake and more of a solid hold.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Piandao, the kid’s a tiny little <em> shrimp. </em>Feed him some cookies.” She sounds personally offended on his behalf. “If you can scrape up some manners, he makes a mean lemon meringue tart. He’s had about fifteen six-year-olds to get good.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao ignores the implication that he’s ninety years old. “Aren’t you on the clock? State your business or go back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>“Spoilsport. I was gonna ask if we had any more apple brioche. The case is out.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“No. I’ll start a new batch to prove overnight for tomorrow but if we’re out, that’s it for today.”</p><p> </p><p>Teruko leaves with a disrespectful, parting wave. Piandao sighs deeply, as if very seriously considering his life choices, but also fondly. Zuko doesn’t understand. If any of Father’s staff had <em> ever </em> spoken to him with a fraction of the impudence that Teruko did, he doesn’t know what would have happened to them. He doesn’t want to think about it. </p><p> </p><p>Piandao looks resigned but not mad.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko watches him closely, warily, out of the corner of his eye, and waits for the other shoe to drop, but it never does. The rage he’s looking for never comes. Piandao is so tall that he looms by nature. He’s not <em> nice, </em> and Zuko kind of likes that about him. It’s easy to be a liar when you’re nice.</p><p> </p><p>“You like bread, kid?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko jumps, startled. Piandao’s plugging in a massive stand mixer and dragging a large bag of flour out from a shelf.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” he finally mumbles when it’s clear that the man is actually expecting an answer. At the answer he gets, Piandao scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Fine? </em> Just <em> fine</em>? Your breaducation is severely lacking.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko processes for a moment and then gapes. Piandao’s expression doesn’t change, even a little bit, and there’s no indication at all that he’s joking. Or not joking? Piandao looks like he’s never seen a joke before in his life, not that Zuko’s any sort of expert.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you just, uh, did you just say—“</p><p> </p><p>“Say what? Keep up, kid. Come here, you have so much to learn.”</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! If you enjoy this next part, please leave me a comment and let me know. Reader feedback fuels the writing juices!</p><p>If you’d rather screech at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p> </p><p>When Iroh’s finished catching up on the books and business numbers that he’s missed the last couple of days, he finally makes his way back to the kitchen to collect his nephew. He knows that bringing him here was hard on him, and overwhelming, and probably too much too soon. He knew it the moment the boy came barreling out of the kitchen and in the way he’d crashed into him like he was the only port in a storm. Iroh trusts Piandao with his life and his business. More importantly, he trusts him with <em> Zuko’s </em> life, but it’s going to take more than Iroh’s own faith for Zuko to believe it.</p><p> </p><p>He knows that and hopes that his oldest friend won’t be hurt by Zuko’s standoffishness. He’s not an emotive man, but he has a good heart and would <em> never </em> lay a hand on a child. Zuko’s assumption to the contrary definitely won’t sit well with him.</p><p> </p><p>When he’s finished, though, the kitchen is not on fire and nobody is screaming. That’s definitely a plus in somebody’s favor.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh pushes the doors to the kitchen open and stops dead.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s stubbornly attempting to knead dough that’s much more like goop, despite that it’s sticking to his hands with every touch. Piandao is clearly the more sensible of the two of them, manning the gargantuan stand mixer that’s doing a much more efficient and much less messy job. Both of them catch sight of him at the same time, and while Piandao clearly sees the amusement on Iroh’s face, Zuko does not, because he immediately starts scrambling to scrape his hands clean.</p><p> </p><p>The dough sticks and stretches between his palms and his fingers and definitely doesn’t come off. Before Iroh can move in to try and ease his distress, Piandao is there with a bundle of paper towels.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop, stop, you’re making a mess,” he scolds, but gently, “Let me help you, stubborn brat. I told you that doing it by hand wasn’t going to work.” Zuko scowls up at him but accepts the aid. It’s a surprise, but a pleasant one, to watch his nephew submit to being helped by someone else.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not totally comfortable, that much is clear, but he isn’t as afraid as he had clearly been earlier.</p><p> </p><p>“Enriched doughs are goo until the gluten’s developed. Next time, just <em> listen </em> instead of being so pigheaded about it. Go wash your hands.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko goes to wash his hands, and when the water turns on loud enough to drown out nearly everything else, Piandao sidles closer to Iroh. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll call you later tonight,” he says and doesn’t ask, “I have questions.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh is certain that he does and is also fairly certain of what at least some of those questions might be. Is he looking forward to them? No. Will it still feel cathartic to be truthful about it? Yes. So in the end, Iroh nods and says nothing because he doesn’t doubt his nephew’s hearing and would rather he not hear anything he doesn’t need to worry about it. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko approaches him with clean hands, only for Piandao to shove a plastic container into them.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s shop property,” he tells him, “So it had better come back. You’re still a little brat but you’re a good enough kid. Come back if you ever want to learn to make something else.” </p><p> </p><p>Zuko adjusts his box of peanut butter cookies under his arm and sticks his tongue out at him on his way out the door. </p><p> </p><p>The car ride home is quiet. Iroh thinks that Zuko’s probably used up all of his socialization bandwidth for the day. He doesn’t push him to talk, just takes the cookies that Zuko silently hands him at stoplights and doesn’t say a thing about the crumbs getting all over his seats. </p><p> </p><p>Crumbs can be vacuumed, but this time isn’t something that Iroh can ever get back.</p><p> </p><p>He used to think that he’d have all the time in the world and he was wrong. No one knows how much time they’ll have, and Iroh would give anything for one second of Lu Ten in front of him again. But what’s gone doesn’t come back and neither does Lu Ten. There’s still Zuko and his suspiciously crunchy peanut butter cookies and crumbs on his seats, and Iroh says nothing.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not a replacement, can’t ever be, but still precious.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh will take those crumbs of time and crumbs of peanut butter cookies too.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you want to take a nap?” Iroh asks when they get inside. Zuko looks exhausted and dazed and seems to droop a little more with every step, but he stubbornly shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” he grumbles, “I’m not a <em> baby.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh side-eyes him and makes a grab for the cookie box before it can slip out of his hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Come watch some tv with me, then. You can tell me about your afternoon.” Iroh sits down on the sofa and turns on the most soothing program he can find—a cooking show hosted by an excessively calming British woman that even has him yawning. Zuko starts out on the opposite end of the couch but very slowly starts slumping over the longer he watches until he’s completely horizontal, the top of his dark head pressed up against Iroh’s thigh. The boy’s not completely asleep yet but getting there, blinking very slowly and letting out the occasional jaw-cracking yawns. “Go to sleep, Zuko.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘M not <em> tired.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course not,” Iroh tells him, no argument in his voice. “But you’re going to get a neck ache all scrunched up like that. You wouldn’t like to go up to your room?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh sighs at his insistence and nevertheless runs a hand through Zuko’s hair. “Alright, then, stubborn child. Have it your way.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not a <em> baby</em>.” Zuko glares up at him, but the effect is diminished by the fact that he’s so openly sleepy and squinting a little at him. It’s a charming look on him—scar and prickles and all. “Teruko said I’m—I’m <em> two </em> six year olds.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did she, now? What else did she say?”</p><p> </p><p>“She called me ornery.” Zuko doesn’t sound mad about it. It could be the fact that he’s half asleep, but he sounds almost pleased about it.</p><p> </p><p>“And then what?”</p><p> </p><p>“And then she—she called Piandao old, and he complained about it but he didn’t, like, yell at her or whack her or anything.” The more Zuko talks, the slower his words come until he’s mumbling softly, almost too quietly to hear.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you think that he was going to whack her?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Zuko whispers, “A little.”</p><p> </p><p>The idea of Piandao whacking anyone out of anger, but specifically whacking a member of his staff, is laughable. Iroh doesn’t laugh, though, because Zuko’s just told him something very important about what he expects from people, even if he doesn’t know it. He probably wouldn’t have said anything at all if he hadn’t been mostly asleep, and Iroh won’t call him out on it. Zuko’s eyes shut entirely and Iroh pets his head until he’s asleep completely.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh won’t let him sleep for too long, or he’ll struggle to sleep at night, but an hour or so before dinner won’t hurt him. Zuko falls asleep stretched out as much as the sofa allows but he ends up curled in on himself in a small ball, pressed up against Iroh’s thigh. He’s a tall enough twelve, despite a year of malnutrition, but he looks so little like this. Thin and still a little fragile, like a baby bird.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh makes sure that Zuko hasn’t so much as twitched in several minutes before he reaches into the drawer of the side table and pulls out the flash drive to roll it between his palms. He doesn’t need to plug it in, doesn’t need to revisit the files on it. He remembers well enough and it’s no wonder or surprise that his brother had sent someone after Zuko to retrieve it once he’d realized what was on it.</p><p> </p><p>It’s nasty stuff. Their father always had been a bit too into crooked business—one more reason atop a mountain of reasons that Iroh had refused his place as Azulon’s successor and subsequently disowned himself from the family’s dealings, but this is a whole new level.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Human trafficking, Ozai? Drug smuggling? What have you done to us? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Just a file or two off of that drive would be enough to put the man away for a good, long time, and it’s hard for Iroh to resist the pull to immediately turn him in. He’s <em> responsible </em> , he has to. He can’t, in good conscience, let Ozai get away with this <em> on purpose</em>.</p><p> </p><p>At his side, Zuko makes a soft little sighing noise in his sleep, and Iroh is reminded quite sharply of why he hadn’t made the call before the boy had even woken up this morning. Iroh needs, even more than he needs his brother in prison, to protect that child, and to do that he needs some things to be easy. And legal. It’s going to be a mess anyway, but to add a custody situation on top of everything else will be a nightmare, and more trauma that Iroh doesn’t want to put on him. If cornered, he doesn’t doubt that Ozai will make the process as hard and twisty as he wants.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh will fight if he has to but he’d rather it be easy.</p><p> </p><p>Even if it means, as it seems that it’s going to have to, a longer wait than he would like.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh would rather his brother give him custody willingly.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t do that without a way to contact him, and the only person who can help him do that right now is Zuko. Zuko, who has only two reactions to conflict: a willingness to fight to the death or a complete shutdown. Zuko, who’s scrawny and sensitive, who has more fight than trust in him at any given point in time. Zuko who expects kindness from no one—not even him, who expects a blow or a harsh word for having the audacity to exist as anything other than cold, hard perfection.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh is a patient man, but it doesn’t come naturally. He’s honed his patience out of rage and necessity, and he is capable of waiting.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t have much choice.</p><p> </p><p>If Zuko feels trapped or cornered, he’ll run. Of that, Iroh has no doubts.</p><p> </p><p>“What would you like to eat tonight?” Iroh asks down at his sleeping nephew, who says nothing. “Carbonara? Why, that was exactly what I was thinking. Excellent suggestion, nephew. Carbonara it is.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy to drape a crochet throw over Zuko and slide off of the couch to make his way into the kitchen. Zuko hasn’t rejected anything Iroh’s made yet, but carbonara is a safe bet—salty and carby and comforting, and Iroh remembers that he liked it a lot when he was little.</p><p> </p><p>It’s something that Iroh can cook in his sleep, and if he happens to take the occasional moment to make sure that Zuko is still sleeping peacefully in the living room, that’s his business.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The phone call later that night is no surprise. Piandao is nothing if not reliable, and Iroh expects it when the phone rings at 10:15 on the dot. Zuko’s in bed already, but Iroh knows better than to think that he’s asleep. He debates briefly the merits of taking this call out on the porch but if he’s needed, he’d rather know about it sooner rather than later.</p><p> </p><p>He lets it ring once, just to pretend like he wasn’t waiting for it, then answers.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, friend.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “</em>You could at least pretend you didn’t know that it was me,” Piandao grumbles from the other end.</p><p> </p><p>“Who else would be presumptuous enough to call after ten? I’m an old man, I need my rest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Old, my ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh gets to the point. “You have questions, I know. Ask them.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where in God’s name did you find that child? I’m not an expert in kids, Iroh, but any village idiot would be able to tell that he’s been abused. I know full well that <em> you </em> didn’t do it.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s the word that Iroh’s thought but hasn’t dared to say aloud, because the instant it becomes real it makes a home in his heart, and he’s not sure if he’d rather cry or commit a murder. Possibly both. </p><p> </p><p>Piandao keeps talking.</p><p> </p><p>“You know it took about everything I had to keep Teruko from calling the cops today? I had to talk her out of finding a <em> hitman,</em> Iroh. Less than five minutes with that kid and she knew. No circles and no proverbs, man. Tell it to me straight.”</p><p> </p><p>So Iroh does.</p><p> </p><p>He’s talks about Zuko’s phone call and about how he hasn’t seen him in <em> years,</em> and how it feels like the bright, cheery little boy he remembers has been replaced with a stranger that a Iroh doesn’t know, and yet he’s as familiar to him still as his own heart. He talks about all the little horrible things he can’t overlook—like how Zuko is simultaneously terrified of him but equally terrified to let Iroh out of his sight, and how he takes very long showers, and how he’s fine with drinking tea but cannot brew it to save his own life.</p><p> </p><p>He talks about how the boy sleeps (poorly) and how he doesn’t know how to react to genuine concern (also poorly), the suspicion. The way that Zuko tries, badly, to hide that he’s afraid on an almost constant basis behind blustery snarls and long, uncomfortable silence.</p><p> </p><p>He talks about how, despite having his own clothes, Zuko’s still wearing Lu Ten’s t-shirts under his hoodies and about how he wears his shoes to bed and has definitely been hiding nonperishable food from the pantry <em> somewhere </em> in his room.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t mention the flash drive.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao lets him talk, and when Iroh’s finished, he’s silent for a very long time.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re going to keep him, right?”</p><p> </p><p>That’s not even a question.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko needs a lot of things. He needs to see a doctor, and he <em>definitely</em> needs to see a therapist. He needs care and support and a safe place to land when he doesn’t feel safe. He needs plenty of food and a reliable routine and he needs to be secure in his knowledge that he will not end up on the streets again.</p><p> </p><p>He needs a <em> home, </em>and it’s not just basic human decency or a familial obligation that makes Iroh want to give him one. The hollow in his heart of unanswered grief has yet to stop bleeding for a single second since his own boy took his last breaths—every effort to manage it has been a patch job at best. Having someone’s needs to put before his own, of being able to care for someone who so desperately needs the care helps fill in that hollow. Not perfectly, never perfectly; Iroh isn’t that deluded. The right size, if not the same shape.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not temporary, that much is clear. It’s not going to fade or go away. Neither is Iroh’s grief.</p><p> </p><p>Just thinking about how many nights that boy spent alone, outside in the dark and the cold, is enough to make Iroh’s tender heart break. That he has so many bruises in the shape of hands that Iroh had had to beg and plead for Zuko’s permission to photograph them, in case they fade before he has to prove them, makes him want to light something on <em> fire</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you waiting for?” His friend asks, cutting through the buzz of Iroh’s thoughts with quietly cultivated effortlessness, “If you know who hurt him, why are you waiting?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s a difficult thing to articulate without fully explaining everything. To an outside view, it certainly doesn’t make sense. But Iroh cannot talk about the drive, in case it jeopardizes everything. </p><p> </p><p>“I need him to give him over, <em> willingly</em>,” he says, finally. “Children go back to unacceptable conditions all the time by way of the court system. A custody battle will be nasty, and bloody, and if Ozai fights it, <em> Zuko </em> will be the one hurt by it. I have some leverage.” Some very powerful, very nasty leverage. “And I think that if handled delicately, I can get him out of there legally. But before any of that can happen, I’d like Zuko to trust me enough to give me his phone number. He is safe enough, for now, but his trust is fragile. I would rather not damage it by going behind his back. Not if I don’t have to.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh knows enough people and has had his hands in enough of Azulon’s shady dealings throughout his life that, if he has to, <em> someone </em> will be able to give him the information he needs. But, like Zuko’s care and custody, it would be preferable to do it legally and willingly.</p><p> </p><p>If it comes down to it, Iroh will do what he has to do, and he will come to that juncture when he gets there. The first thing he needs is Zuko to be safe and secure and out of Ozai’s reach.</p><p> </p><p>And then Iroh is going to <em> put his younger brother in the ground. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the late posting for this chapter! I wasn’t in great shape yesterday and needed to be gentle with myself.</p><p>As always, if you enjoyed this, please leave a comment and let me know! Even if I can’t always get up the oomf to reply, knowing that my readers are enjoying my stories helps fuel the writing juices. If you’d rather screech at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>
Zuko’s tired.</p><p> </p><p>He’s been tired for what feels like forever, but right now he’s <em> tired </em> tired because he didn’t want to have a repeat of the night before and keep Uncle awake with his screaming nightmares. He forced himself to stay awake until the sun was coming up and then proceeded to immediately pass out. He’d slept for what felt like no time at all before Uncle Iroh’s waking him up and telling him to get dressed.</p><p> </p><p>It’s now seven a.m., and Zuko’s dazed and falling asleep against the window of the car as Uncle drives them back to the <em> Jasmine Dragon.</em></p><p> </p><p>“Why are we going so early?” He mumbles into the glass, leaving smudges of fog from his breath. “It’s <em> Saturday.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“We open early on Saturday,” Uncle tells him.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko grumbles into the window and hates everything.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll be able to eat breakfast when we get there,” Uncle offers mildly, “Piandao should already be there. Have you ever had quiche?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko scowls with his eyes closed and doesn’t answer. He’s so tired that he doesn’t even care about food. All he cares about is bed and how he’s not going to see it for forever. That will change because Zuko <em> always </em> cares about food, but not right now.</p><p> </p><p>The tea shop is open but barely. Zuko cannot believe that there are actually people here this early—cheerful, awake-looking people who seem disgustingly excited to greet the day. Zuko dislikes them immediately on principle. There’s a big group of them clustered around a board game that Zuko only kind of noticed yesterday—it looks sort of like gō or halma. No one playing is under the age of fifty.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko effectively pours himself into a chair as far away from the group as he can get and drops his face into his arms. He doesn’t have it in him to be helpful right now and luckily, Uncle doesn’t seem to expect it. </p><p> </p><p>Uncle himself is also disgustingly cheerful and disgustingly sociable, greeting the board game group with enthusiasm like old friends.</p><p> </p><p>Ugh.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko misses his bed.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle’s guest bed.</p><p> </p><p>He misses Uncle’s <em> guest </em> bed. It’s not his bed.</p><p> </p><p>The lights are less glaring this early, and despite the customers, it’s a quieter crowd than the brunch rush he experienced the day before. It’s all too easy for Zuko to shut his eyes and be lulled into calm by the quiet buzz of activity. Every so often he manages to drag open his eyes and make sure that Uncle’s still there, but it’s not long before he’s dozing off with his head on the table.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko wakes up to a rattle very close to his ear and immediately jolts upwards, nearly headbutting the person next to him with a startled squeak. That person happens to be Piandao, who holds his hands up in easy surrender.</p><p> </p><p>“I come in peace, brat,” he says. “Iroh said you were going to want breakfast. Eat, you need it.”</p><p> </p><p>Food is always an attention-getter for him, and Zuko looks down at what’s been set in front of him. On a plate is a sizable piece of quiche, fresh and hot judging from the steam rising off of it, as well as some bacon and a few orange slices. Despite Zuko’s determination to be grouchy, it looks really good.</p><p> </p><p>Next to the plate is a mug of something pale and creamy that smells kind of like chocolate but also a little bit like a candle but in a good way. Zuko takes a deep, curious whiff, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Piandao’s lips tilt up.</p><p> </p><p>“The boss didn’t want to caffeinate you this early. It’s white cocoa with chai spice.”</p><p> </p><p>Upon taking an experimental sip, Zuko finds that it tastes just like it smells: chocolate with a hint of candle, but in a good way.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought you just did baked stuff, like muffins and cookies,” Zuko says to Piandao but mostly focused into his mug.</p><p> </p><p>“You have to bake quiche, don’t you? Even <em> Starbucks </em> serves quiche. Not quiche that’s worth eating, but they serve it. Breakfast folks need real food. Don’t eyeball the bacon like that, it wasn’t a hardship to fry up a piece or two.” Piandao reaches out, even as Zuko warily eyes his hand, moves slowly enough that he can easily be choreographed, and ruffles Zuko’s hair. “Eat, monster. If you feel like lending a hand, I’ll be in the back.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko feels better once he’s eaten, more awake and less cranky, and he’s just about to get up and drag himself into the kitchen when he stops. Across the shop, not playing not-checkers but clearly with that group, is a kid. That kid is staring at him.</p><p> </p><p>That kid grins when he makes eye contact, beams brightly, and waves. Zuko sends him a suspicious stare and raises his hand in a slightly begrudging wave in response, hoping that that will be the end of it. That’s <em> not </em> the end of it.</p><p> </p><p>That’s not the end of it, because Weird Kid Across The Shop takes Zuko’s reluctant wave as an <em> invitation, </em>says something to one of the old guys, and bounds over like he’s fallen out of a pinball machine. The biggest dog that Zuko’s ever seen in his life drags itself up off the floor and follows him.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi!” The kid says as he throws himself into the chair across from Zuko, despite not being invited. “My name’s Aang! Wanna be friends?”</p><p> </p><p>“...I don’t even know you,” Zuko tells him, fiddling with an orange peel. Aang laughs at him.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s why I told you my name! That’s how people get to know each other. What’s your name? I’m here every Saturday with my dad, but I’ve never seen you before. Well, he’s not <em> really </em> my dad. Not yet! How old are you? I’m eight.” Aang talks quickly and doesn’t really leave a lot of openings for Zuko to speak, and he’s getting tired again just watching him. Except that the other boy’s finally paused to take a breath, and is clearly waiting for answers.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko swallows hard.</p><p> </p><p>“Um. I’m Zuko. I’m twelve.” He doesn’t like being the focus of this conversation. If anyone could even call it a conversation with Zuko being so awkward and uncomfortable. It’s been a really long time since he’s talked to another kid. Being in school seems like forever ago, and Zuko doesn’t remember how it felt to spend all day with twenty other kids when being across the table from one is making his stomach twist.</p><p> </p><p>Aang’s so cheery and smiley that Zuko wants to crawl underneath the table and maybe never come out.</p><p> </p><p>A soft pressure lands on Zuko’s thigh and he jerks, glancing down. Aang’s giant dog is sitting politely next to him and dropped his head onto Zuko’s leg. He doesn’t jump or try to lick, but his tail thumps rhythmically against the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s Appa.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks up to see Aang eyeballing him hard. He’s still smiling, but it’s not the same.</p><p> </p><p>“You can pet him, if you want! He’s a good boy. My dad and I are training him to be able to go see people in hospitals to make them feel better. He always knows when people are sad and wants to make them happy!”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko could no more keep his hands off of Appa than he could stop his own breath. He doesn’t remember the last time he was allowed to just sit and pet a dog. Appa’s ears are very soft and very fluffy and Appa makes a contented whuffing sound when Zuko scratches them.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you like him?” Aang asks, “He likes you! I mean, he likes everybody but he looks like he <em> really </em> likes you.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s very quiet “Yes,” slips out of him before he can stop it. Aang’s smile is so bright and so honestly delighted that Zuko’s stomach hurts. Reluctantly he pulls his hands away from Appa and very gently pushes the dog away. “I have to go.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where are you—?”</p><p> </p><p>But Zuko’s already making his getaway, not running, but solidly powerwalking his way across the shop and making a beeline for the kitchen. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Aang didn’t do anything wrong but Zuko’s skin is crawling and his stomach hurts and he can’t keep sitting at that table any more, pretending like he’s normal.</p><p> </p><p>Normal people know how to talk to other kids.</p><p> </p><p>Normal people can have a conversation with somebody without acting like a big, dumb baby.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t realize how hard he’s breathing until a hand comes down on his shoulder and it catches in his throat. He chokes on nothing and heaves a little, and the hand retreats.</p><p> </p><p>“Kid, it’s fine. You’re fine. Take a breath.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t know <em> how </em>. He feels sick and dizzy, and breakfast sits inside him like a rock.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, sit down. Take a minute, kid. Take a minute.” Hands reach out again and help lower Zuko to the floor and encourage him to fold over until his face is pressed into his knees. Almost immediately it’s easier to take in air, and as soon as Zuko realizes that he’s sitting on the kitchen floor, he scrambles up to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>“I—s-sorry,” he stammers, clasps his hands behind his back, spine ramrod straight. “I didn’t mean to—“ Zuko’s anxious scramble for words is interrupted by Piandao shoving a piece of biscotti into his mouth. The man waits, arms folded over his chest, for Zuko to stop chewing.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you done apologizing for what you can’t control?” he asks.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko swallows the last bit of almond and cranberry and lifts his jaw to meet Piandao’s eyes and face whatever judgement he has for him. He finds none, only a calm patience and something soft that he can’t name.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao doesn’t smile with his mouth, not like Uncle, but his face is warm. Zuko’s ears go hot under the scrutiny.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on, then, monster,” he says, “Yesterday’s brioche dough is waiting for you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Slowly, Zuko begins to uncoil.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Zuko pokes his head out of the kitchen, it’s been long enough that Aang and his dad are gone. The not-checkers game is apparently called pai sho. Piandao tried to explain the rules to him, but it sounds boring beyond words, and the man gives up when Zuko gives up on pretending to be interested.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently Uncle is, like, a pai sho <em> champion </em> or a Grand Master or whatever it is that means he’s really, really good at it. Zuko’s not surprised, even if it is a boring old man game.</p><p> </p><p>He holds the saucer in both hands, determined not to drop it, and makes his way across the shop. It’s easy to find Uncle, sitting and talking with one of the grumbly pai sho players.</p><p> </p><p>“Um…”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle looks up, and Zuko resists the urge to escape back into the kitchen. It’s too late now, though. He’s been seen and he won’t be caught running like a little baby back from where he came from, even if he wishes that Uncle had been by himself and not with his board game buddies.</p><p> </p><p>So Zuko does the only thing he can do: he straightens his back and lifts his chin and marches over like he’s never been afraid of anything in his life. When he’s close enough, he thrusts out the saucer.</p><p> </p><p>“I made—<em>we </em> made it,” he announces at the raised eyebrow he receives. “Piandao said that it goes well with jasmine.”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle Iroh stares down at the plate he’s been handed. On it rests a thick slice of brioche, studded with pieces of apple and ribboned with streaks of brown sugar and cinnamon. Zuko shifts from foot to foot.</p><p> </p><p>“Have you had some already?” He asks and mimes splitting the bread, and Zuko ducks his head, feeling his cheeks start to tellingly heat.</p><p> </p><p>“Mhmm,” he answers. “I wanted to try it right away, but Piandao made me wait until it was cool.” And, despite it not being quite lunchtime, Zuko had proceeded to eat two pieces all by himself.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle Iroh splits the piece anyway and passes it to the scowling man across the board.</p><p> </p><p>“Eat it, Pakku. Maybe something sweet will sweeten your temper.”</p><p> </p><p>“No one likes a sore winner, old man.”</p><p> </p><p>“Better a sore winner than a sore loser, old friend.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko flees while he has the chance.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Come get your kid and take him home. He’s falling asleep in my kitchen.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh frowns a little.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s had a rough go of it and tires easily, but he was quiet all of last night, and had been deeply asleep when Iroh had gotten him up this morning. It had been an early start, certainly, but not so early that he should be this tired before noon.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao’s right, though, because of course he is. By the time Iroh gets back to the kitchen, Zuko is fully asleep, slumped over the counter like it’s just as comfortable as his bed. Despite his concern, it’s a charming picture and a shame to have to wake him.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” Iroh says softly, “Wake up.” When that doesn’t work, he reaches out to touch his shoulder and the boy jerks like he’s been struck, nearly falling off of the stool in his effort to scramble away. “It’s okay, it’s just me. I’m taking you home to get some rest.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko rubs the sleep out of his eyes and frowns.</p><p> </p><p>“I—I’m okay,” he protests weakly, and glances at Piandao.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t look at me, brat. Quit fussing at your Uncle and go to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko closes his mouth and lurches off the stool without another word, glares fiercely at both Piandao and his uncle, and marches out of the kitchen to the car.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You didn’t sleep last night?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko continues to stare stubbornly out the window. He doesn’t want to answer Uncle’s questions and doesn’t want to see the look of disappointment on his face. Apparently, he doesn’t need to answer in order for Uncle to know it, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you say something? If I'd known that, I would have let you keep sleeping.”</p><p> </p><p>“...I didn’t want to bother you.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s face drops, and Zuko feels a chunk of ice fall into the pit of his stomach. That apparently hadn’t been the right answer at all, even though in Zuko’s experience, grown ups <em> liked </em> being left alone when it came to kids’ problems. Uncle should have been happy that he didn’t have to wake up to Zuko’s hysterics or deal with him.</p><p> </p><p>He should have been happy, but Zuko thinks that all he’s done is disappoint him instead. He presses his forehead against the window and neither of them say another word for the rest of the drive home.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle doesn’t speak again until the car is parked in the driveway.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, just a moment.” He says. “Just...I won’t take long, but wait a moment.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko waits, even though his skin crawls with discomfort and stress.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle rubs his temples.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko, taking care of you and making sure that you’re safe—physically, emotionally...it’s not a <em> bother</em>.” Uncle doesn’t bother asking who had made Zuko feel that way. They both know who. “If you're having trouble or you’re struggling, I want to know about it. If you can’t sleep, I’d rather you come to me instead of suffering all by yourself. Your health and safety are important. A priority. You know what a priority is?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko knows what priorities are. He knows very well that, according to Father, he doesn’t have his own in order. He has a feeling that Uncle doesn’t want to know about that either. </p><p> </p><p>“...It’s the things that are important,” Zuko finally answers. Like making business decisions that make more money, or the stock market.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s right. It means that <em> you </em> are my priority and that means that you come first. If you’re having trouble sleeping, if you’re hurt or hungry or unhappy, that means that it’s my job to put those things <em> first </em> and before anything else. Do you understand?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko knows on a theoretical level but does not understand. It’s not <em> right</em>. That’s not how the world works. That’s not how his life works. Maybe that’s how things are for other people, but that’s not the way they are for him.</p><p> </p><p>People only do things that they want to do or things that they have to do, and wants are temporary, fickle things. If Uncle wants to take care of him but doesn’t <em> have </em> to, then there’s nothing that says he’ll keep doing it when it stops being fun, or stops giving him what he wants out of it. Zuko can’t rely on wants. He knows that he can only rely on himself. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t understand at all. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko nods anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle drags in a hard breath; he plainly doesn’t believe him. Zuko opens his mouth to try again, to lie a little better even though he’s just as bad at that as he is at everything else—and Uncle stops him, holding up a hand for quiet. He looks so <em> sad </em>, and Zuko’s stomach twists. With shame or with something else, he doesn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, Zuko. You don’t have to understand and you don’t have to believe me, yet. It doesn’t make it any less true. I’ll keep proving it to you until you can believe it.”</p><p> </p><p>And then, what? What’s going to happen the moment that Zuko starts to trust him? What then? How much will it hurt, in the end?</p><p> </p><p>The space behind Zuko’s eyes burns, and he scrubs at his face with a hand before tears can even think of forming. He’s not a dumb, stupid crybaby. He doesn’t need to be crying all the time, just because his heart’s a giant bruise that keeps getting poked at. He tries to speak but all that comes out is a traitorous croak that sounds suspiciously like a sob, and shuts his mouth hard.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle leans over and reaches across him to unfasten his seatbelt.</p><p> </p><p>“I know better than to ask you to tell me everything. I know that it’s too much to ask of you right now. But please try to be honest when I ask if you slept or if you ate or if you’re feeling okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko nods, silently, and cannot trust his voice to make words if he opens his mouth, so he doesn’t. He expects that to be the end of it, and makes to open the car door—and Uncle reaches out, suddenly and without warning.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko flinches on instinct and squeezes his eyes shut, but all the man does is cradle the back of his head in his hand and tug him gently forward to press a kiss to his forehead.</p><p> </p><p>“Go get some rest,” he says, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t have to—“</p><p> </p><p>“Priorities, Zuko.” Uncle smiles at him kindly. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is not going to cry in this car, and makes a run for it before he starts.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which nobody is perfect.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’ve said from the beginning that this particular story is very important and personal to me. That’s partially why I struggle sometimes with writing it, and this specific chapter was a labor of love. </p><p>If you’re enjoying this story, please leave a comment and let me know. If you’d rather scream at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>Zuko tries really, really hard to fall asleep in his bed. He <em> does</em>. He wraps himself up and lays very still and tries his best not to fidget or stare at the ceiling. It doesn’t work, though.</p><p> </p><p>For all that Zuko was falling asleep in Piandao’s kitchen and dozing off on the drive home, he’s wide awake now. From somewhere in the house, the air conditioner kicks on with a whirr. Cold air coming through the vents makes him shiver.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s used to feeling uncomfortable. Being effectively homeless means boiling in the summertime and in the winter...well. He’s grateful for the kindness of strangers and for shelters that don’t look too hard at a kid by himself. This is a different sort of discomfort, though, and Zuko feels a little ungrateful for indulging in it. </p><p> </p><p>He should be so happy to be cold in the summertime, right? He should be thankful. What he wouldn’t have given to be cold this time last year.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle keeps telling him that he can eat what he wants, when he wants, as long as he says something when they’re out of something. If that’s the rule about food (food costs money, a <em> lot </em> of money, and Zuko does not waste either when he has it), then maybe he wouldn’t be upset if Zuko went and found an extra blanket.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not like he’s asking him to buy a new one or anything.</p><p> </p><p>At home, blankets and extra sheets were always kept in the hall closet, back when Mama would take care of those things herself. It might be the same here. Zuko doesn’t know, but it’s worth checking.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually Zuko drags himself out of bed and pads down the hall to the closet closest to Uncle’s bedroom. That’s where extra linens would make sense, right? The door opens with a creak, the way all doors do when they haven’t been opened in a long while. There’s nothing hanging inside but there are boxes stacked floor to ceiling, all unmarked and all taped shut, all coated with a layer of dust.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko ignores them and looks up, only to catch sight of a familiar something. Before he can really consider whether or not it’s something he should be doing, he reaches up, grabs a corner, and tugs. The whole thing comes down on his head in a slithery river of blue and green amidst Zuko’s squeak of surprise.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a huge crochet afghan in shades of dark blues and forest greens, and it’s nearly too big for Zuko to hold without dragging on the floor. Mama made it for Lu Ten before Zuko was even born, and it lived on his bed for as long as Zuko could remember, all the way up to Lu Ten packing it up and moving to college.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko hadn’t known then that he wouldn’t see his cousin again. He didn’t think that he’d ever see the blanket, either.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not <em> stupid</em>, he knows that realistically there’s no way that that blanket smells like anything other than closet. But when he brings it to his nose to take a deep inhale, he pretends that it can. His brain remembers the smell of Aunt Natsu’s favorite laundry detergent that Uncle kept using after she was gone just because she liked it. It remembers the body spray that Lu Ten used to practically bathe in in middle school that he was teased kindly, but mercilessly, for. </p><p> </p><p>It’s too whimsical to consider, too whimsical for words to think that he can smell happiness in a memory, but Zuko remembers.</p><p> </p><p>He suddenly and very desperately misses his cousin. His memories are clouded sepia-sweet with nostalgia but he knows that he didn’t make it up. Zuko didn’t make up his kindness or his patience in dealing with his clingy duckling of a little cousin. He <em> didn’t. </em></p><p> </p><p>Zuko buries his face in that blanket and tries to remember how to breathe.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks, just for a moment, that maybe he should put it back. But it’s so high up, and Zuko doesn’t have a stool or a ladder, and even if he had one...he doesn’t want to put it back. A blanket certainly isn’t a replacement for Lu Ten (or for Mama, who Zuko still hasn’t learned how to think about without short circuiting himself in pain), but it’s all that he has.</p><p> </p><p>Of either of them.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll just...sit with it for a few minutes, and then he’ll put it back. Just for a little bit until he can make his hands let go.</p><p> </p><p>If Zuko ends up on the couch, wrapped up in shades of blue and green, he’s not telling anyone about it. It’s not like he’s going to fall asleep, or anything. He just needs to take a minute, and then he’ll put it back.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s nearly 4:30 by the time Iroh’s gathering his things to leave. There isn’t <em> that </em> much to do; the closing staff know what to do, but Iroh takes his time anyway. Zuko’s had a hard time of it and having some time to himself—really to himself, to think and relax and decompress, might be good for him. Not too much alone time, but he’s still a twelve year old boy. Iroh doesn’t want to smother him.</p><p> </p><p>He wants Zuko to be able to rely on him and trust him, and part of that is going to have to be Iroh being able to trust him first. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Zuko’s <em> motives</em>—the child has none to speak of, other than doing whatever it is he has to do to not end up alone on the streets again.</p><p> </p><p>Of course he doesn’t (can’t) trust Iroh when he says that that won’t be happening. How could he? He doesn’t know how. Zuko will learn as long as Iroh remains consistent with his words and his actions. </p><p> </p><p>He’ll learn but it’s going to take time.</p><p> </p><p>Driving Zuko home was a quiet one but this one seems even quieter. Zuko had been mostly silent, mostly asleep, but Iroh’s surprised at how quickly he’s gotten used to having him around.</p><p> </p><p>The empty car feels quieter just from his absence.</p><p> </p><p>The front door is locked, just as Iroh had reminded him to do before he went inside. The house is quiet, at least from the front hall. Iroh hopes that Zuko has managed to nap. It may give him some trouble later when he’s trying to go to bed that night, but Zuko’s still a <em> child,</em> and children need sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Only a monster could see the bone-deep exhaustion written all over that boy and ignore it.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not just tired in a physical sense. Zuko’s mentally and emotionally tired, too. He needs rest—in bed but also in life. A schedule, a routine that he can rely on so that he can remember how to do more than just survive.</p><p> </p><p>On a whim, Iroh checks the living room first, and drops his keys to the floor, his fingers suddenly too slack and too cold to hold onto them. The noise isn’t that loud, but it’s enough to startle Zuko awake, and he visibly jumps underneath the blanket he’s wrapped himself up in like a burrito.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a blanket that Iroh hasn’t seen in <em> years</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t wanted to see it—couldn’t bear to throw it out (couldn’t bear to throw out <em> anything </em> belonging to his only, precious son that he won’t ever see again) but can’t bear to look at it either.</p><p> </p><p>Seeing it now feels like being punched in the heart with a spire of ice, run through with grief like it’s only just happened, all over again. It’s a hit that he can never learn how to block.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Why do you have that</em>?” </p><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t recognize the voice that comes out of him. Those are his words but that can’t possibly be his voice. It’s too cold and hard—too angry, with too many sharp edges. It’s too sharp, too angry, too <em> mean </em> to use on Zuko. Surely, Zuko didn’t <em> know </em>, it’s a mistake, he didn’t mean to—even as Iroh says those words in that ugly, ugly tone, he knows that it’s not justified.</p><p> </p><p>That it’s not warranted.</p><p> </p><p>Knowing that doesn’t stop him from repeating them.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Why do you have that?</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko sits up, his already pale face draining of what little color it had to start with. His eyes are round and huge and he struggles to make himself let go of the blanket pooling down around him on the couch, down to the floor.</p><p> </p><p>His hands are beginning to shake.</p><p> </p><p>“I—um—“ Zuko can’t seem to make words happen, tripling over every staggered, broken syllable that he can get out in the wake of Iroh’s grief/rage/pain.</p><p> </p><p>Very slowly, he slides his feet to the floor, making no sudden movements. The second they touch he begins to back up until he hits the wall, then bolts for it at a full run, up the stairs and out of sight without another word. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh can’t watch him go. He can’t watch anything other than that blue and green blanket innocuously sliding off the couch. Unchanged and frozen in time, frozen in grief. There’s no room in Iroh for concern or worry or regret.</p><p> </p><p>All there is is the deep, engulfing trench of <em> pain</em>.</p><p> </p><p>There will be time, later, for Iroh to question what the hell he was thinking, prioritizing a memory over the living, breathing kid that he’s just run off. That time isn’t this time. This time is for stepping forward and lifting that blanket with reverence. It’s just a blanket—old, soft-washed yarn that’s still as bright as the day that Ursa had finished it, huge and heavy, and Iroh doesn’t want to touch it.</p><p> </p><p>Delicately, carefully, as if it’s going to fall apart under his hands, Iroh folds it into the smallest square he can manage. He trudges up the stairs, numb and cold and frosty, and returns Lu Ten’s blanket to its resting place. From there, all he can do is go into his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh sits on his bed with his head in his hands for a long, long time.</p><p> </p><p>He’s used up his tears years ago but they would be preferable to the hollow that’s opened up in his heart. Like a sinkhole that takes everything else down with it, Iroh’s already at the bottom—who else is going to get dragged down too?</p><p> </p><p>Oh, god. Oh, <em> god</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko.</p><p> </p><p>It’s like waking up underwater. The world swims and then comes back to clarity in an instant, one single thought breaking the surface.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Zuko. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Iroh isn’t thinking before he’s moving, up off of the bed and out the door. He has to find Zuko. He has to explain, he has to <em> apologize.</em> </p><p> </p><p>For once, Iroh doesn’t knock on the door to the guest bedroom before opening it. </p><p> </p><p>...It’s empty.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not in the bedroom, and he’s not under the bed. (Iroh checks.) He’s not in the bathroom. Zuko’s not in the kitchen or in the garage. He’s not back in the living room. He’s not on the porch.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not in the backyard.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s heart is living in his throat. Oh, god. He’s run him off, for real. He should have <em> known </em> better. All the pain in the world isn’t an excuse to be nasty to a child. A child, who’s coming out of a lifetime of <em> abuse</em>. Who can sniff out negativity with the sensitivity and tenacity of a bloodhound.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, god.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh checks the guest bedroom—<em>Zuko’s </em> bedroom, one more time. It’s still empty, except that when he stops to try and breathe through the panic in his lungs, he can hear a very quiet noise coming from the closet, barely a rustle.</p><p> </p><p>Like a sniffle.</p><p> </p><p>Dread sitting in the pit of his stomach like a rock, Iroh takes a step towards the closet and reaches out to tug the door open.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko’s ruined <em> everything</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He should have just stayed cold. He should have just stayed in bed. He should have gone for the front door instead of the closet. He should have dialed someone else that night, if he’d known that he’d mess it all up this fast.</p><p> </p><p>He shouldn’t have called anyone in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>He’s tucked into the back of the closet, folded up so tightly that his knees can touch his chin. Zuko can’t <em> breathe</em>. His heart’s pounding in his head like a drum, and the little air he can manage to take in comes right back out in nearly-silent, hiccuping sobs. How many times has he told himself to not push, to not make demands, to not find any excuse to figure out where Uncle Iroh’s line in the sand gets drawn?</p><p> </p><p>Well, Zuko’s found it like he does with everyone, like a horrible, awful talent he doesn’t want.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko fucked up, and now Uncle is so hurt and so <em> mad</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He missed his chance to make an actual escape, because Uncle Iroh came back into the house and there’s no way he’s getting out now. He’ll wait it out until Uncle gives up on looking and then he’ll be gone. It won’t be hard getting out the window, even if the drop from the second floor will probably hurt.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll figure it out.</p><p> </p><p>For now, though, Zuko remains as small as he can, wishing with everything he is to disappear, maybe to never have existed in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>He’s so lost inside his own head and trying so hard not to let his brain just shove itself out of his body that Zuko doesn’t hear the footsteps of Uncle’s return to his—<em>the </em> bedroom. The door opens with a quiet rattle and a hand pushes aside the jackets.</p><p> </p><p>Silhouetted against the lights of the room, Uncle’s tall and looming.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko can’t see his face, not really, through his own blurry haze of tears. He doesn’t want to see the anger written on his face, or the pain. Zuko shuts his eyes right and drops his head into his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. </p><p> </p><p>A blow, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>It never comes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh opens the closet door and pushes a section of hangers to the side. His stomach plummets even deeper into his knees.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s on the floor and pressed up against the wall. He stares up at him, glassy-eyed with tears and looking dazed in a way that’s definitely concerning, before he’s hiding his face in his knees and curling up tighter. He’s silent through all of it except for the sound of hard swallowing of air, but still. Like he’s waiting for something.</p><p> </p><p>Is he waiting for Iroh to hit him? To start screaming at him?</p><p> </p><p>Very, very slowly, Iroh takes a step inside and kneels down in front of his nephew. Touching him right now is probably a bad idea, so he keeps his hands to himself despite the sudden need to hold him. Zuko twitches at his approach and peers up at him just for a second, before slamming his eyes shut again.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh has the suspicion that he’s calculating his odds on running for it.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he breathes. “Zuko. I’m not mad. Look at me, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite it all, Zuko has yet to refuse a direct order. He’s been unhappy, he’s been reluctant, he’s been surly, but he’s always followed through with whatever Iroh has asked of him. Out of fear of what might happen if he doesn’t?</p><p> </p><p>Zuko obeys him, even now. Gold, terrified eyes open.</p><p> </p><p>“I need you to take a second,” Iroh says. “Take a breath.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s response to that is not to take a second or to take a breath. Instead, he bursts into hysterical, noisy tears.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em> sorry</em>,” Zuko wails, “<em>I’m sorry</em>! I didn’t mean to make you mad. I couldn’t sleep and then I was <em> cold</em>, and then after I’d pulled it down I couldn’t reach to put it back up, and then I was so <em> tired</em>, and it was warm, and <em> Mom </em> made it—“ And then as quickly as he began crying in the first place, Zuko shifts from devastation to almost panicked rage, “I don’t care! I don’t care about the stupid blanket anyway! I don’t need it. Or <em> you</em>!”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko cuts off abruptly and goes silent when Iroh can’t take it anymore and reaches out to pull him into a hug. Zuko’s a stiff little statue in his arms and Iroh squeezes him, very gently, until he can feel the boy take a breath.</p><p> </p><p>“I need you to listen to me, Zuko. If you only ever listen to me once, I need you to hear this. I should not have spoken to you like that, however hurt I was. I should have known better. I was surprised to see you with it and reacted poorly.” The understatement of the century. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko goggles at him. Whether it’s from the admittance of his pain or the admittance of being wrong, Iroh isn’t sure. It could be either or it could be both.</p><p> </p><p>“But you were hurt—“</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Iroh says, very quietly. “Yes. I was hurt. But so were you, and you did not deserve it, and I’m sorry for frightening you. My grief is not a reason or an excuse to speak to you like that. It’s mine to deal with, and you are not responsible for it.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko flinches like he’s been struck, and Iroh doesn’t understand.</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s...it’s not just yours,” Zuko whispers, finally. He won’t look up. “It’s <em> not </em> just yours. It’s mine too.” He’d finally stopped crying so hard but the more he talks, the more his eyes well right back up again. “I miss him, Uncle, and I’m <em> sorry</em>. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I miss my mom.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s only option is to hold him tighter until he can swallow the lump in his throat, until his own breath doesn’t burn. He can’t even imagine how it feels to be Zuko—to have inexplicably survived the things that he’s lived through, through violence and homelessness and fear and everything in between. He can’t understand, just like Zuko can’t really understand how it felt to stand there and feel those old wounds get ripped open again.</p><p> </p><p>But Iroh can understand this. He can understand that Zuko doesn’t feel safe because he sleeps with his shoes on and definitely has a food stash somewhere in this room and has never refused direct instruction, even if he doesn’t like it. Iroh can understand, because Zuko folded up and returned the hand-me-down pajama bottoms of his cousin that he was given that first night but not the t-shirts. He can understand, because Zuko never asks for more than he’s given.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t ask for anything at all.</p><p> </p><p>“I can find somewhere else to go if you want,” Zuko offers softly, looking up through dark, wet lashes like that’s somehow going to make Iroh feel better. Like a twelve-year-old boy effectively offering to go back out to living on the streets to make up for something that isn’t his fault is going to help. Instead, it makes him feel like he needs to crawl into a hole and die.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>No,</em>” he says. “No, Zuko, no. You’re not going anywhere else.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko jerks back and Iroh thinks with horror at where he could have gone wrong. </p><p> </p><p>“...I can stay?”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh does not cry. Iroh does a very good job of remaining steady and <em> not crying</em>, looking Zuko in the eyes, silently pleading for the boy to just believe him. Believe him, just for now, that he means what he says and will, come hell or high water, back up his words with action.</p><p> </p><p>“I want this to be your <em> home</em>, Zuko. I know that it isn’t, right now, but it can be. I want it to be. I want this to be your home for as long as you want it. Forever, if you want it.” Iroh wants that more than anything. He’s wanted it since Zuko followed him back to his car, which feels like forever ago. If anything happens to this child, Iroh thinks that he won’t survive it.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s lower lip gives a single wobble, and it’s like a dam giving out—his hard-won composure crumbles like wet paper and he buries his face in his palms. The noise that comes out of him is <em> horrible</em>; it’s not a sob or a whine, just a raw cry of pain that tears itself out of him like it hurts. Iroh can’t leave him be, not when he so clearly needs to not be left alone, and reaches out to reel the boy back into his arms.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s fight drains out of him and he curls up very, very small in Iroh’s arms. He cries and cries for what feels like an eternity, until he’s out of tears and all he’s got left is a bone-deep, anxious shaking and nearly silent, hiccuping sobs. All Iroh knows how to do is hold him together until Zuko’s little rabbit heart stops feeling like it’s going to give out, too. Zuko’s blinking slowly, dazed and drained. He looks exhausted and hollowed out, and doesn’t even have the energy to wipe at his face. In the end, Iroh does it for him with the edge of his sleeve.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s sure that if he lets go, then Zuko’s going to drop, boneless, to the floor. He doesn’t know if he’ll get up again, if he’s allowed to drop.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh shakes him, very gently.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he says softly, “Would you like to come out of the closet, now?”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko shakes his head wordlessly. He doesn’t want to come out of the closet. He doesn’t want to come out, possibly ever again, for the rest of his life. His everything hurts—his face, his head, his heart, the bruises still wrapping themselves dark and ugly around his body. Uncle’s care is like its own kind of bruise all on its own, a bruise and a balm all at once. Just because it hurts doesn’t mean that Zuko doesn’t still want it anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He feels like he’s floating—not like when he was so afraid of freezing to death that his brain would simply throw itself out of his body so that he just didn’t have to deal with it, but different. Like he just doesn’t have the capacity to do anything other than let himself be managed. He doesn’t care if he stays in the closet forever as long as he can keep feeling so warm and taken care of.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s <em> so tired. </em>He’s so tired of fighting, and he’s so tired of being afraid all the time. He’s <em> so </em> tired.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko hears Uncle make a soft noise of concern but it’s muffled, like he’s underwater. He doesn’t have the energy to care about it. Zuko doesn’t even care when he’s maneuvered gently back to lean against the wall of the closet and then left alone. </p><p> </p><p>It’s enough, he thinks, to have gotten what he did.</p><p> </p><p>It’s enough to have been given comfort even if it didn’t last.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s learned plenty about how to keep a memory like it’s new.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how long it is before suddenly he’s not alone again. It could have been a minute or a few minutes or a few hours but before Zuko knows it, Uncle’s back in the closet and wrapping blue and green around his shoulders. Zuko doesn’t have it in him to fight it, but he feels like he should—that blanket is what started this in the first place. It’s not <em> his. </em>Zuko knows that he can’t have it, but doesn’t have it in him to say no. Not when he wants so badly.</p><p> </p><p>“Your mother—“ Uncle says, bundling Zuko up like an infant and hoisting him into his arms with only a small sound of exertion, “—would have been happy that this could bring you comfort. And so would my son. They loved you, Zuko, and so do I.” </p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s sure that he has nothing left, but his eyes burn and well up anyway. He doesn’t let them fall.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t even know me,” he mumbles. Uncle should know better. “You don’t even <em> know </em> me.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko finds himself deposited very gently on the couch in the living room. He doesn’t want to be treated kindly if he’s only going to lose it later, but he can’t make himself reject it.</p><p> </p><p>“I do know you,” Uncle tells him firmly. “I know what’s important.”</p><p> </p><p>How can he, when <em> Zuko </em> doesn’t even know what’s important?</p><p> </p><p>“I know that you’re kind and that you’re doing the best you can. I know that you’re strong and independent and try to do the right thing even when you don’t know what that is. Those things were true when you were smaller, and they’re just as true now.”</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t know that!” Zuko’s protests sound weak even to him. He doesn’t even know why he’s fighting it. Uncle watching him with that soft, sentimental face should make him feel <em> happy</em>. And it does, but first it just makes him feel scared. “You don’t. You <em> can’t.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is weak, and scared all the time and isn’t strong or kind at all.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle Iroh just watches him for a few moments. Eventually, he sighs a little and sits down next to Zuko on the couch, nudging aside the corner of Lu Ten’s huge, warm afghan.</p><p> </p><p>“Lift your sleeve for me, please.”</p><p> </p><p>Confused and a bit wary, Zuko does so, sliding the sleeve of his hoodie up to expose his upper arm. The ring of bruises is still deep and black and ugly, and hurts to touch. Zuko hates even looking at them and ducks his head.</p><p> </p><p>“You got those for being strong,” Uncle says quietly. “Someone wanted something from you, and you told them no. They tried to take it from you, and you <em> fought</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“...I hit him with a rock and <em> ran away.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>“You were smart. You did the best thing that you could do. He didn’t win. Zuko, none of them won.” Fingers touch the underside of Zuko’s chin and tip his face up. “I don’t condone violence, but <em> you are a child</em>. If someone tries to hurt you, they deserve whatever they get.” </p><p> </p><p>And a bit extra, is what he implies but doesn’t say. </p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks Uncle in the eyes and, for the first time in his life, can see ferocity on someone’s face and feel reassured instead of fearful.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t eat much at dinner. His stomach twists and roils inside his body and doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop, not until Zuko asks, very quietly, for a piece of paper and something to write with.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been a long time since he’s written anything and his penmanship is sloppy and out of practice, but the sequence of numbers is clear enough to read when Zuko pushes the post-it silently across the table. Uncle takes it from him and doesn’t ask what it is. He looks it over and commits it to memory before folding up the little yellow square and slipping it into his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>The little hurricane in Zuko’s guts doesn’t totally dissipate but does settle a bit in the wake of what he’s just done.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It takes everything that Iroh has to not use that phone number the moment that it’s in his hand. It takes everything and every drop of reason he can muster to merely fold it up and put it away.</p><p> </p><p>The worry and trepidation on Zuko’s face take priority, in the end. Iroh can’t imagine how much it took for Zuko to trust him enough to give it to him, and despite the rage that snarls for vengeance in his stomach, he knows that he can’t do this to him right now.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko knows, of course, that Iroh is going to call his father. Of course he does. Iroh’s told him as much and explained the reasons why, and Zuko isn’t stupid. He <em> knows</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But that doesn’t mean that Iroh can, in good conscience, let him sit and stew and worry about what he’s going to say or how it’s going to go. That’s not something that Iroh wants him to have to worry about, even though it’s inevitable.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t sleep well that night.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t even make himself pretend, either, not like he did last night every time Uncle opened the door to check on him. He’s good at faking it—he’s a light sleeper anyway, but it’s easier to keep people from getting the drop on you in the night if the performance is convincing enough, but he doesn’t have it in him tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko knows that if he sleeps, he’s going to dream. It’s been a long, long time since he’s even dreamed properly, and longer still that he’s had anything other than nightmares. Even when he was little—Mama called them night terrors but Zuko knew better.</p><p> </p><p>Night terrors are supposed to be made up.</p><p> </p><p>All of Zuko’s nightmares are very, very real.</p><p> </p><p>The third time that Uncle Iroh comes in to check on him and he sees Zuko flat on his back and staring blearily at the ceiling, he gives an audible sigh.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so tired,” he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have to look to know that Uncle’s coming closer, and feels the edge of the bed dip down with pressure near his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Forcing yourself to keep your eyes open won’t help you very much,” Uncle says gently, even as Zuko keeps staring stubbornly upwards. “Would you like to talk about it?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko definitely does not want to talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about. What’s he going to say, anyway? That he’s a dumb baby who’s too scared of bad dreams to go to sleep? Please.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so tired,” is all that manages to come out of his mouth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know what to do. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know how to fix this. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Help me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Don’t leave me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Zuko says none of that, but he thinks that Uncle might hear it anyway. He flinches on instinct and shuts his eyes when a hand reaches out and strokes gently up his forehead, into his hairline.</p><p> </p><p>“You need rest, Zuko.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t wanna go to sleep.”</p><p> </p><p>Uncle makes a quiet noise of consideration and doesn’t push at him. Instead, he adjusts the edge of Lu Ten’s blanket and tucks it around him just a little closer. Zuko doesn’t want to find it soothing, but he does anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Safe is too strong a word for how he feels right now, but wrapped up warm and cozy and not alone might be the closest thing he’s been in a very long time. Zuko curls up on his side and twists to press his forehead into the solid wall of Uncle’s hip, allows the fingers in his hair to keep their calm, soothing movement. Uncle doesn’t try to talk to him, for which Zuko is grateful.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want to talk.</p><p> </p><p>Hell, he barely wants to <em> be</em>.</p><p> </p><p>But he’ll take this, right here and right now, as a close replacement. Zuko’s body is so comfortable and his brain is suddenly so <em> quiet </em> that he doesn’t fight the slow, creeping onset of sleep. He lets himself fall, and knows that he won’t hit the ground alone.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Teruko looks at Zuko and goes, “is anyone gonna mercilessly bully that? But, you know, with love?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments on the last chapter! I know that it was a hard one to read (and definitely a hard one to write) but I’m so glad that as a whole, y’all feel like I’m approaching the topic with sensitivity and compassion. </p><p>If you like this chapter, please leave a comment and let me know! I get overwhelmed and struggle to reply but know that I read every single one and treasure the feedback that I’m given. My askbox and dms are always open on tumblr @sword-and-stars as well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>It’s too much to ask that Zuko sleep peacefully through the night. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh waits until the boy is very solidly asleep before leaving him to it, and when he retires to his bedroom to begin his own process of winding down, he knows better than to assume the peace will last. He’s right, of course, though he wishes he were wrong. Iroh wants nothing more than for Zuko to sleep for a good seven, eight hour stretch, but knows that it’s unlikely.</p><p> </p><p>Making progress doesn’t mean that anything is truly fixed. A step forwards towards trust doesn’t erase the trauma that flares up every time Iroh makes an unexpected movement.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh knows this and consciously leaves the hall light on and his own door cracked.</p><p> </p><p>He’s a light sleeper, lighter still when he needs to be.</p><p> </p><p>If Zuko needs him, he won’t sleep through it.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko gets about an hour and a half of peaceful rest before Iroh’s jerking awake at the sound of a gasping cry and a thud coming from down the hall. He’s awake immediately, with no time or patience to indulge in the bleary stage of sleepy confusion that comes from being woken suddenly. Striding into the guest bedroom, he stops.</p><p> </p><p>The bed is empty.</p><p> </p><p>That doesn’t mean anything, though, and Iroh kneels down on the floor to check underneath it first. Blessedly, his nephew is not hiding out underneath the bed like a frightened animal, which means that his other hiding spot is at least a little more accessible. Iroh tugs Lu Ten’s blanket off the bed and drapes it over his shoulder to check the closet.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is exactly where Iroh thought he might be, tucked up against the wall behind the jackets.  When he sees Iroh, the look on his face is fearful, but not of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle,” he whispers, “Don’t call him. Please? Don’t call him. I shouldn’t have—he’ll be so—I shouldn’t have—“</p><p> </p><p>The boy is shaking like a leaf, but his eyes are dry, even if they’re wide with panic. It’s a good thing, because Iroh doesn’t know what he’d do if Zuko started crying while looking like that. He kneels down in front of him and wordlessly wraps the blanket around him like a cocoon.</p><p> </p><p>“Take a breath,” Iroh tells him gently. “In, hold it—out. Again. In, hold it, and out.” </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, <em> very </em> slowly, Zuko’s staccato, stuttering breaths even out into something more normal. The closest that he can probably manage right now. At any rate, he gets back a bit of his color and starts looking less like cornered prey and more like the twelve year old boy that he is.</p><p> </p><p>“Walk me through it so I can help you. Why shouldn’t I call your father?”</p><p> </p><p>They both know that he has to. Zuko is neither stupid nor foolish, right now or in general. What he is not, however, is rational. He’s too young and too panicky to expect too much anyway, and with the experiences he’s collected in the span of his short years? Iroh counts himself lucky that Zuko even lets him this close.</p><p> </p><p>He can’t make Zuko’s past less frightening. He won’t and he can’t, because it <em> is </em> that frightening, and Iroh is not the kind of monster that would make light of it. Zuko’s life has been a terror.</p><p> </p><p>His future doesn’t have to be.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko takes a hard swallow of air.</p><p> </p><p>“...He’ll <em> hurt </em>you,” he says finally. “And then…” he trails off into silence. Iroh wonders what he was going to say before his words got stuck. </p><p> </p><p>“How is he going to hurt me? I am a grown up, Zuko, and he has no jurisdiction over me.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s not enough or not right, because Zuko lurches forward, hands outstretched, to grab Iroh by the collar of his sleep shirt.</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll—he’ll send someone. He won’t just give you what you want. He’ll—“</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko. You aren’t breathing again.” Iroh’s going for steady but isn’t sure he pulls it off. “He has something I need, true. But I also have something that <em> he </em>needs. I am not helpless, and he cannot hurt me without hurting himself. He has no power over me.” Power that Ozai had, solely and completely, over his son. Power that he took advantage of, that Iroh is now dealing with the repercussions of.</p><p> </p><p>The rumble of rage in his heart is intense but ignorable.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay if you’re afraid, Zuko.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not afraid!” Zuko spits, shakes off his fear in favor of the safety of his own, complicated anger. The same, but different. “He can rot. He can <em> choke</em>. I’m not afraid of shit!”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay. Not afraid, then.” There’s no point in provoking him if Iroh doesn’t have to. Not to prove a point they’re both aware of. Winning a point on a twelve year old isn’t winning at all. “I want to keep you. You know that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko nods, but it’s a tiny, unsteady thing. It’s a nod, but Iroh’s not totally sure that he believes it. He’s not sure that Zuko believes it either.</p><p> </p><p>“If something happened to you—if you got hurt, or sick, or needed the hospital, there would be nothing I could do. I couldn’t authorize treatment. I couldn’t make any decisions for you. They might not even let me in the room with you. I can’t sign you up for school, because I don’t have your birth certificate or vaccination records.” There are so many things that Iroh needs for him. “You need to see a doctor, and I can’t do that for you without your father’s cooperation.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh can fight him, but he’s going to have plenty more fights in his future. There are even fights that he’s looking forward to. But, to secure his nephew’s safety, he will cooperate. Iroh will scrape, or threaten, or blackmail, or do whatever he has to do.</p><p> </p><p>He’s never been afraid of getting his hands dirty.</p><p> </p><p>What this conversation does is further nail in Iroh’s opinion that Zuko should not be present for that phone call. He definitely shouldn’t be anywhere near the vicinity and, better still, probably shouldn’t even know that it’s happening until it’s over.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko does a good enough job of stressing himself out without Iroh adding to the mess.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t seem to have anything to say. He sags a little and drops his face into his hands, and takes a deep, audible drag of air.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you think you can go back to your bed?”</p><p> </p><p>“...I don’t want to,” Zuko whispers into blue and green stitches. </p><p> </p><p>“Would you be more comfortable sleeping on the sofa?” Iroh hasn’t missed that Zuko’s wearing shoes. His new converse are laced tightly onto his feet like they’ve been recently re-tied. The laces are tight but the loops are haphazard and uneven, re-tied with panic rather than deliberation.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t answer him.</p><p> </p><p>“Would you…” Iroh ignores the rock that sits cold and heavy in his stomach, “Would you rather stay here?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko twitches and stubbornly doesn’t look up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“You can. You can sleep wherever you’d like. Wherever you feel safest.” It’s horrifying on every level that a child would rather hide out in a dark closet than sleep in a bed, but more horrifying still is thinking about how he got to that point. If this is where Zuko can find comfort, he’s welcome to it for as long as he needs it.</p><p> </p><p>“I can stay in here?” Zuko looks up and cocks his head, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.</p><p> </p><p>“You can stay in here,” Iroh confirms without judgement. “With a condition. You have a choice: you can let me check on you every so often, or you must promise to come and get me if you’re struggling.” Trust had to come from trust. If Zuko wants to be left alone, Iroh has to show him that he trusts him to come if there’s a problem. Even if he has a feeling that Zuko would rather die than seek him out. Even if he knows with certainty that the boy would rather suffer by himself.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko swallows hard and tucks his chin into his collarbone.</p><p> </p><p>“Can...can you check on me?”</p><p> </p><p>That’s not the choice Iroh was expecting him to make, but he doesn’t let the surprise show on his face.</p><p> </p><p>“I can do that,” he says. “Would you like the door open or closed?”</p><p> </p><p>“Closed. Please.” Zuko’s <em> exhausted </em> and his voice has dropped to a soft-pitched mumble even as he slumps hard into the corner of the closet. He won’t properly relax until he’s alone and they both know it. Not like this.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh indulges, briefly, in a quick ruffle of Zuko’s hair that the boy effectively yawns into.</p><p> </p><p>“I’d rather not wake you if I don’t have to,” Iroh continues over the speed bump of his own hesitation, “But would you like me to knock first?”</p><p> </p><p>They’re both imagining the same thing. It’s clear from the stress that flickers over Zuko’s overtired face that waking to find a grown man looming in the doorway of a small closet would not help either of their sleeping habits.</p><p> </p><p>“...Please.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh wakes around four in the morning. There isn’t a reason for it except for the niggling, misplaced worry that he hasn’t felt so sharply since Lu Ten was a baby. Natsu made fun of him often because of how many times she’d caught him staring at the baby monitor in the middle of the night.</p><p> </p><p><em> The baby’s fine, Iroh</em>, she’d said. <em> Come back to bed</em>. </p><p> </p><p>But in the end and without fail, Iroh would find himself standing at the side of his infant son’s bassinet, his crib, his bed, to make sure he was still breathing. To make sure he was happy.</p><p> </p><p>To make sure that sleep was coming easy.</p><p> </p><p>It’s different with Zuko, of course.</p><p> </p><p>The boy is not an infant and is able to talk if there’s a problem. He won’t, but he <em> can</em>.  There’s no reason to think that he might simply stop breathing in the middle of the night. He’s prickly and easily frightened but there’s no reason to think that he might run off, leaving Iroh with an empty room and an empty heart.</p><p> </p><p>But Iroh finds himself worrying anyway, and wishes that it could be as simple as checking a baby monitor.</p><p> </p><p>It’s easy, then, to pull himself out of bed and pad down the hall and into the guest room that’s quickly becoming Zuko’s room. The bed is empty, as expected, but all the pillows have been dragged off the mattress, presumably into the closet.</p><p> </p><p>The door is shut, as expected.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t hear so much as a peep from inside, but he lifts his hand anyway and knocks, very quietly, on the doorframe to the rhythm of ‘shave and a haircut’. That gets a response but not a big one, just a soft rustle and a quiet, sleepy mumble of inquiry. He pushes the door open as silently as he can, reaching out to slide some of the hangers to the side.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s curled up on the floor with his pillows and wrapped up like a burrito in Lu Ten’s blanket. He’s awake enough to blink blearily at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Just me, Zuko.”</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle?” His voice, softened with sleep, makes him sound even younger than he is. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s heart hurts.</p><p> </p><p>“Just me,” he repeats, very quiet. “Just checking. Doing okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhmm. M’tired.”</p><p> </p><p>And Zuko must be, to admit it so easily and with so little fuss. Hearing his sleepy disregard is a <em> relief. </em> Iroh wants his presence to be inconsequential, to be brushed off, to be taken for granted. To be <em> safe. </em> It’s not, of course. It can’t be.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s nice to know that Zuko is capable of it, even if he had to be tired to the point of near unconsciousness to get there.</p><p> </p><p>Children should take their adults for granted. That’s what they’re supposed to do.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, all Iroh can do is look at him. He looks tiny like this, curled up in the smallest ball he can manage. Nearly his whole body, except for his legs, fits on the pillow and the effect is that Zuko looks like a overtired, worn out kitten.</p><p> </p><p>It’s debilitatingly charming, and Iroh has no defense against it.</p><p> </p><p>“Rest,” Iroh tells him. Speaking through the sudden, unexpected lump in his throat is difficult. Fighting a tiger might have been easier. “I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko mumbles a dazed, sleepy assent, and allows Iroh to adjust one of the pillows under his head for a more comfortable sleep before he leaves.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>Iroh pulls Piandao aside the moment that Zuko’s distracted enough by Teruko’s aggressively friendly teasing to not notice.</p><p> </p><p>“Look after him for the afternoon, please,” he says lowly. “He won’t be surprised. I told him I was going on a supply run.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao levels him with a dry, unimpressed stare.</p><p> </p><p>“And what will you actually be doing? Jee went three days ago.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have a phone call to make that I’d rather he not worry about until after it happens.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao says nothing but his face gets a little more judgemental. Iroh wasn’t sure it was possible.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t look at me like that. If I tell him it’s happening, all he’s going to do is panic. Why ruin his day when I don’t have to?”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao still doesn’t look like he approves, and Iroh steadily ignores it. It’s not ideal, of course, but neither is the situation. Iroh doesn’t enjoy lying on principle and even he’s not thrilled with the deception, which is mild at worst, but it’s better than the alternative.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t trust me, old friend?”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao snorts.</p><p> </p><p>“You I trust plenty. It’s literally every other factor that I worry is going to blow up on you.”</p><p> </p><p>Reservations aside, Piandao doesn’t sell him out when Iroh goes to his nephew, crowded into a booth and gently being bullied into drinking a cup of freshly made boba tea that a customer never picked up, and reminds him that he’ll be back later and to listen to Piandao like he’s his babysitter or something.</p><p> </p><p>Preposterous.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao is nobody’s babysitter.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao is <em> very </em> firmly in denial.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko looks distinctly uneasy the moment that Iroh’s no longer in eyesight, even while determinedly chewing on a mouthful of tapioca pearls.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop harassing my assistant,” he orders. Piandao is nobody’s babysitter but he will take the title of supervisor, if he must. “Don’t you have actual work to do?” Teruko pouts at him.</p><p> </p><p>“I am doing actual work!” She protests and wraps an arm around Zuko’s shoulders. “I’m educating the baby.”</p><p> </p><p>“‘The baby’ is twelve years old,” Piandao comments. “Pretty sure he’s potty-trained.” Zuko looks vindicated for the first half, then his face drops to a glare for the second. He still can’t talk because he’s still chewing.</p><p> </p><p>“The baby is a tiny, crabby little stick child who doesn’t know the difference between green tea and black tea. He said he doesn’t <em> care</em>. The <em> boss’s kid</em>. He needs <em> educating</em>. Give him to me.” Teruko makes grabby hands.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko swallows his boba.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not a puppy!” He snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s not a puppy,” Piandao repeats dutifully, then smirks. “You eat way too many peanut butter cookies to be a puppy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I have him?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s eyes beg and plead for Piandao not to give in. Teruko’s grin is diabolical but her grip on Zuko is easy and gentle, and he’s not <em> afraid </em> of her. The choice is easy.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, go for it, whatever. Teach him the ways. Have fun, kid.” Piandao doesn’t say which kid he’s talking to, but Zuko stares at him with a mixture of trepidation and betrayal. </p><p> </p><p>Like that, he <em> does </em> look a bit like a puppy.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Yes!</em>” Teruko whoops and wraps both hands around Zuko’s arms, dragging both him and his boba out of the booth and over to the brewing stations despite his halfhearted protests. “Yo, Min! We stole Piandao’s kitchen baby! Score one for Team Tea!” </p><p> </p><p>Piandao spends a moment longer than he’s willing to admit eyeballing the kid, ensconced between Teruko’s overwhelming tornado of energy and Min’s calm, deadpan serenity. He looks nervous, but that’s kind of how he always looks.</p><p> </p><p>He looks nervous but not afraid.</p><p> </p><p>That will do.</p><p> </p><p>Then, and only then, does Piandao return to his kitchen.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t just go out and sit in his car.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t just drive around the block.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh takes the car and drives halfway across town and eventually pulls into the parking of an elementary school, empty for the summer. He spends a good five minutes doing some deep breathing and to double check the hastily scribbled numbers on Zuko’s slightly crinkled sticky note until they’re branded into his brain.</p><p> </p><p>He turns off the engine but leaves the air conditioner running.</p><p> </p><p>He dials.</p><p> </p><p>It rings twice and then gets picked up with a click.</p><p> </p><p>“Speak,” comes a low, frigid voice from the other end. It’s not Ozai. Iroh knows the sound of his brother’s voice and this isn’t it.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello,” he manages to greet, more pleasant than he feels. “I’m calling in regard to some information that will be of interest to Ozai. Would you be so kind as to put him on?”</p><p> </p><p>A pause.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s busy.”</p><p> </p><p>“He’ll want to talk to me,” Iroh insists. His brother’s audacity is enraging but unsurprising. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s busy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Let him know that his brother would like to talk to him.” Iroh leaves no room for argument. “It’s been such a long time. Put him on, or I’ll start thinking that he’s <em> avoiding </em> me.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a long silence and then, eventually, the rustle of the phone changing hands.</p><p> </p><p>“Iroh.”</p><p> </p><p><em> That’s </em> Ozai’s voice. Still cold and careless, as if Iroh isn’t worth the breath it takes to say his name. Iroh thinks of the boy he left in Piandao’s care back at the shop, and lets the rage unfurl.</p><p> </p><p>“Good morning, little brother!” He says cheerfully, “It’s been too long!”</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you calling?”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, wouldn’t you believe it? I woke up this morning and thought to myself, <em> Self, you know who you haven’t spoken to in a while? </em> And then it occurred to me that I haven’t talked to you or the kids in years, and surely that couldn’t have been on purpose? You’ve been so very busy, I’m sure.” Iroh pours every ounce of loathing into each syllable of small talk. Ozai was born hating social niceties.</p><p> </p><p>“How did you get this number?”</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> then </em> I started thinking,” Iroh continues as if he’d never said a word, “My goodness! I wonder how my <em> favorite nephew </em> has been! I’m sure that Zuko’s still a very sweet child. Right, Ozai? I’d love to talk to him, if he’s available.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence is longer this time.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s busy.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll wait.” Iroh drops the friendly, cheerful veil with pleasure. “It’s one twelve-year-old boy, Ozai. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that it sounds, well, I don’t know. Cagey like that, it almost sounds as if you don’t know where he is. But that couldn’t possibly be true, could it? If you’d lost your only, firstborn son, surely you’d have gotten the police involved? It would definitely be horrible if they began an investigation for nothing, wouldn't it? Is your son the only thing you’re missing, little brother?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. Dead silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Cut the shit, Ozai,” Iroh snaps, voice suddenly hard and frosty. “You know why I’m calling. You’re not that stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you want?” </p><p> </p><p>When Ozai speaks, his voice has no feeling whatsoever. Not even the rage that Iroh would expect. </p><p> </p><p>He sounds cold and dead.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh, on the other hand, feels like he’s going to burn up in his own personal forest fire.</p><p> </p><p>“I want signed and notarized custody of Zuko, and your willing, permanent termination of rights. I want all of his medical records, his birth certificate, his social security card, and anything still in your home that ever belonged to him. Anything with his name on it, any documents he’s ever signed, any photos that he’s in.” It’s an easy list that Iroh can rattle off in his sleep. “I want him to be a ghost in your life, in your home, and in your memory, and I want him to never have to worry about your existence in this world for as long as he lives.”</p><p> </p><p>“And then what?”</p><p> </p><p>“And then you get what’s really important to you,” Iroh replies, ice in every word. “I don’t care what you get up to in your personal time. Your business is your business.” A long, silent pause. “Let me be quite frank. Turn over that boy to me, and erase yourself from his life or every news outlet and every police force I can find will receive copies of every file on that drive. I might, perhaps, put in a few words with some of <em> my </em>old associates. They were mine before they were yours, after all. I wonder who between us could hold their loyalty. It could be interesting to find out.”</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing that Iroh won’t do to accomplish his goals. He’ll dirty what he has to, swindle who he has to. He’ll lie, cheat, and steal if he has to. He’s done it before and he’ll do it again. He’s enjoyed life in the public sector, enjoyed making a life for himself that hurts no one. Iroh has enjoyed the peace of it all, but for Zuko?</p><p> </p><p>He’ll throw it away if he has to.</p><p> </p><p>Tunnel vision has always been their family’s weakness but Iroh is the only one to weaponize his.</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing that he won’t do.</p><p> </p><p>Ozai has forgotten this and requires the reminder.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh lets his words land and sits quietly, white knuckled but with all the patience in the world.</p><p> </p><p>There is nothing that he would not do.</p><p> </p><p>“Done,” Ozai says eventually. “Bring the drive tonight. You will be sent a time and an address. Come alone. All these years, and still so tiresome. You’ve never understood.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s an abrupt click on the other end of the line, and a dial tone buzzes in Iroh’s ears.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Iroh comes face to face with Zuko’s personal monster, and also lies a lot.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! I’m so glad that you’re enjoying this story! I’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch so all the love and validation is good for my existence. ♥️</p><p>If you enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment and let me know. If you’d rather screech at me on tumblr, I can be found @sword-and-stars.</p><p>Also, a friendly reminder that I am straight up allergic to unhappy endings. Not matter how bad things may seem to get, I won’t ever give you a bad ending.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>Iroh considers not going straight back to the shop, but his nerves are frayed and on high alert. All he wants to do is be back in the <em> Jasmine Dragon </em>where he feels more in control. It’s irrational—he knows that he ought to be happy, to be relieved that, all things considered, it had gone so easily. It had been less of a fight than Iroh had been expecting, and he’s not sure if it makes him more or less furious.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh had known that Ozai didn’t love his son. No one with even a drop of love for another person could ever treat a child like that.</p><p> </p><p>But the lack of regard at all, like Zuko isn’t even worth the breath it takes to fight for him, is cold and chilling and infuriating. Iroh is relieved that it went easily, but it shouldn’t have had to happen at all.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao catches him by the elbow at the door, before he’s even completely in the building.</p><p> </p><p>“Well?” He asks.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh musters up a smile for him.</p><p> </p><p>“He agreed to my terms,” he says simply. “Be careful, friend. For someone who tries so hard to not care, you’re caring awfully hard.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao glares.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not an <em> asshole</em>, Iroh.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh sees a flash of black by the brewing stations and looks past his friend’s shoulder. Across the shop, Zuko’s trailing behind Teruko while she talks to customers and fills orders. Someone’s found him a red apron and folded up the front so that it fits him a little better, even though the strings are so long that they loop around his waist twice. She stops at a table and rummages through her pockets for her order pad and pen, and Iroh can see his nephew stop behind her and tuck his fingers into the hem of her shirt.</p><p> </p><p>He’s not pulling, just...holding.</p><p> </p><p>Teruko notices, he <em> knows </em>she does, but does an excellent job of pretending that she doesn’t. Iroh wants to give her a raise.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao follows his gaze, and the side of his lip twists up a millimeter or two.</p><p> </p><p>“I think she’s adopted him,” he comments with an idle sort of shrug. “He’s been following her around like a puppy since you left.”</p><p> </p><p>“Can I justify giving her a raise?”</p><p> </p><p>“She’s late every other shift, eats behind the counter, and gives lip.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh says nothing. Eventually, Piandao sighs.</p><p> </p><p>“If you want to deal with a possible mutiny and accusations of nepotism from the rest of your staff, be my guest.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it still nepotism if the person being favored isn’t family?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m not sure it’ll matter.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh considers it further and lets the matter drop, only to bring up another of higher importance.</p><p> </p><p>“While I have you here, I’m afraid that I’ll need another favor from you.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao follows Iroh’s golden-eyed stare, watches the little splash of black and red follow Teruko around the shop, watches Min show him the easiest way to carry a loaded tray in his hands. Someone’s tied his hair up for him—Fuyumi, maybe? Piandao’s seen that hair clip before—dressed well with an apron and his hair mostly out of his face, Zuko looks like he fits right in. A little small and a little scrawny, but he fits.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, he sighs. </p><p> </p><p>“Ask.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Where are we going?” Zuko asks. It’s not the way home—to Uncle’s home, but Uncle hasn’t said anything about going anywhere else after leaving the tea shop.</p><p> </p><p>“The grocery,” Uncle says, and smiles when Zuko makes a face about it. </p><p> </p><p>“Can I stay in the car?”</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely not,” Uncle replies without missing a beat, “Not in a thousand years.” He flicks on his turn signal at the stop light. “There’s a bookstore a few stores down. If you promise not to leave, you could stay there while I shop. Would you like to?”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s babyish need to keep Uncle in sight at all times battles mercilessly with not wanting to be so clingy, and also because <em> books</em>. Zuko hasn’t read a book in over a year. Books were the only things that he liked that Father ever really approved of—but only if they were about stuff that <em> he </em> wanted Zuko to like. It was always easy, though, to slip fantasy and the occasional swashbuckler into the stack of dry, boring nonfiction whenever he might find himself in a shop when he was younger.</p><p> </p><p>Before things got really bad.</p><p> </p><p>Father never liked him, but he liked Zuko to be educated, even if it was only in the ways that he wanted him to be.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko drags himself out of his head and the instinctive hole of panic that thinking about Ozai puts him in, side-eyes Uncle who is side-eyeing him right back.</p><p> </p><p>He misses books.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> really </em> misses books.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to take a long time?” Zuko asks finally, voice small.</p><p> </p><p>“Not a long time,” Uncle says gently but without pity or condescension. “We don’t need a lot of things, but we need some basics. You can always just come into the store with me if you’d prefer. Whatever you want.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko considers this and then eventually shakes his head. </p><p> </p><p>“No.” Zuko ducks his head and stares down at his own hands, fingers laced together tightly enough that his knuckles are white. “I want to look at books.”</p><p> </p><p>Part of him waits for Uncle to take it back—that because he hesitated too long in deciding because he’s such a <em> baby </em> about everything, that he’s taken it off the table entirely. Father did that, sometimes. It was always a test that Zuko tended to fail, even though he knew better.</p><p> </p><p>That doesn’t happen.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle nods to him with a quiet sound of acceptance, like he knows that any further discussion might just break him for real, and keeps driving.</p><p> </p><p>The bookstore isn’t as big as one of the chain ones, but it’s bigger than Zuko expects. </p><p> </p><p>Uncle walks him in and offhandedly mentions to the young woman commandeering the register that Zuko is to remain within the building and where he himself will be; Zuko, in the meantime, has been distracted by the books lined up neatly on shelves and stacked upon the tables. He’s so distracted, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice the soft look on his face right before he reminds Zuko to not leave or talk to any strangers.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko resists the urge to snort, even as he waves to Uncle’s retreating back.</p><p> </p><p>Like <em> he’s </em>going to be talking to strangers. Please.</p><p> </p><p>It’s enough to touch the books, honestly, to pull them off the shelves and flip them open just long enough to catch a whiff or warm paper and ink before putting them back. He tries not to hold any of them for too long; it’ll be too tempting to start reading them, or worse—to start <em> wanting </em> them. He’s caught out quickly though, when the manager clears her throat and eyeballs him.</p><p> </p><p>“You know,” she says, “There are some chairs in the back. You’re welcome to pick a few out to read before your father comes back.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko jerks a little on instinct and opens his mouth to protest, <em> vehemently</em>, that in no way, shape, or form is Uncle his <em> father</em>, and then changes his mind. It’s a word he can’t even think without feeling like he’s about to start vibrating out of his body.</p><p> </p><p>Uncle is <em> Uncle</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko doesn’t want him to be anything else.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, though, he doesn’t protest her phrasing. The next book he pulls off the shelf, Zuko sends her a testing side-eye—she’s watching him do it, and when he makes eye contact she gives an encouraging nod.</p><p> </p><p>Well, then. Okay.</p><p> </p><hr/><p><br/><br/>Children need independence, and Zuko, more than most, needs to know that Iroh trusts him. Iroh <em> knows </em> this.</p><p> </p><p>Knowing this and still walking out the door, away from him, are two very different things. He knows the shop well and has spoken often with the owner. It’s a safe space for him, but that doesn’t stop the uneasy twist in his guts that comes from walking away. Tomorrow he’s getting him a cell phone, if more for Iroh’s peace of mind than anything else.</p><p> </p><p>It also doesn’t stop Iroh from hustling up and down the aisles at a brisker pace than normal.</p><p> </p><p>The checkout line goes excruciatingly slowly, and Iroh forces himself to actually put the groceries in the car before going back for Zuko. He pushes open the door to the bookstore, glances around—</p><p> </p><p>And does not see hide nor hair of his nephew. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t panic. No, his heart just flies into his throat like it decided to live there, no big deal or anything. No panic here. For a moment he stands in the doorway, checking shelf to shelf and fighting the sudden chill laying low in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s in the back, mister.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh jerks and glances over at the same young woman he’d spoken to earlier about Zuko being here alone. She’s eyeballing him with a knowing stare, like she’s seen his buried panic and wants to put him out of his misery. Iroh is grateful for her mercy.</p><p> </p><p>A few steps towards the back of the shop is all it takes for his ears to be able to pick up the soft sounds of someone reading aloud.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not sitting in a chair, even though there are multiple empty ones available. He’s sitting on the floor and two smaller children, maybe around the age of four, are bracketing his sides, both peering over his knees at the book he’s holding. There’s a substantial stack of chapter books piled up on the chair behind him, but Zuko’s reading from a glossy picture book.</p><p> </p><p>“He wouldn't fight and be fierce no matter what they did.  He just sat and smelled.” Zuko’s reading voice is quiet and soft, careful to pronounce every word correctly. “And the Banderilleros were mad and the Picadores were madder and the Matador was so mad he cried because he couldn't show off with his cape and sword. So they had to take Ferdinand home.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a soft touch on Iroh’s upper arm and he turns to see a woman leaning against one of the shelves. The look on her face is warm when she looks from Zuko to one of the children hovering next to him and looking at the pictures. </p><p> </p><p>“Your son is very sweet,” she says, quietly enough to not interrupt. “Mine gets so antsy when we go out sometimes, but she’s been sitting with him almost the whole time. You’ve done a good job.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s heart feels too big for his body. There’s no way for him to say that he had nothing to do with Zuko’s soft heart and softer nature and furthermore, has no idea how those things haven’t been crushed out of him by his experiences, and still be socially acceptable. So in the end he says nothing, just stands quietly next to her and waits for Zuko to finish. </p><p> </p><p>“And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly.” Zuko pauses for effect but his own quiet voice gives a telling, treacherous shake, as if he’s feeling too many things to hold them. “He is very happy.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s heart twists hard and his next breath sounds a little more like he’s clearing his throat. The spell snaps and breaks, and Zuko‘s dark head jerks up at the sound. </p><p> </p><p>He looks openly alarmed until he realizes that it’s only Iroh. Then, and only then, does his expression melt into relief.</p><p> </p><p>“Uncle!” he says, and snaps the book shut, scrambles to his feet. “You’re all done?”</p><p> </p><p>“All done,” Iroh confirms. Zuko hands <em> Ferdinand </em> over to one of his companions and begins to gather up the stacks of his own reading material, shelving them appropriately without being asked. “Zuko.” The boy stops. “If there’s anything you like, hold onto it. We’ll buy it and take it home.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s hands still, hovering over a thick paperback with a green cover that’s definitely, probably too big for a twelve year old. He wants it badly, though, that much is obvious. Iroh doesn’t need to be a genius to know what Zuko’s thinking. </p><p> </p><p>He’s clearly torn, internally debating where the line is between <em> enough </em> and <em> too much</em>, and it makes Iroh’s heart hurt a little to see it.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko,” he repeats, very quietly. “Give those here. If you like them, we’ll get them. All of them.” He holds out his hands expectantly and waits.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko goggles at him for a long, long moment. Iroh keeps waiting for him, hands open and outstretched. However long it takes for Zuko to realize that it’s not a trick or a trap or a joke.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, Zuko places the large, thick book into Iroh’s hands. <em> Brave Story </em> is emblazoned across the cover. Iroh keeps waiting, until <em> A Wrinkle In Time</em>, <em> The Phantom Tollbooth, Howl’s Moving Castle, </em> and <em> The Voyages Of Doctor Dolittle </em>join the stack. Slowly the pile grows until it has to be split between the both of them, and Zuko finally stops.</p><p> </p><p>“I—sorry,” he mumbles and looks away, shifting his own stack in his hands, “It’s a lot. More than—sorry. I’ll put some—“</p><p> </p><p>“Absolutely not,” Iroh interrupts, firmly but gently. “I told you, didn’t I? If you want them, we’ll get them. Besides,” he continues, when it’s clear that Zuko’s still anxious about it, “It’s good for a young man to read. These are large books and impressive for your age; I’m very proud of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko freezes, looking stunned and a little bit like he’s been hit over the head. It makes him look very, very young. Younger even than he already is.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he whispers. The way he clutches his stack of books to his chest only reinforces that Iroh made the right call. “Thank you.” A shy, tiny smile curves his lips upwards. Such a small little thing, but Iroh can’t remember the last time he saw Zuko smile that sweetly.</p><p> </p><p>He would have been very, very small indeed.</p><p> </p><p>A triple digit charge for the credit card is a more than fair trade for that smile.</p><p> </p><p>The woman at the desk blinks at the twenty-odd books that get dropped in front of her, and she looks briefly from Zuko’s quietly—and badly hidden—elation to Iroh’s pleasant determination to not make a big deal out of it. She smiles.</p><p> </p><p>“Found everything you needed?” She asks. The question gets directed towards Zuko. He looks surprised to be addressed but nods silently. He doesn’t offer anything more than that, and Iroh’s not surprised by his reservation.</p><p> </p><p>It’ll be a while, if ever, before Zuko is truly at ease around strangers. It’s fine.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t have to be.</p><p> </p><p>The drive home is a quiet one but for different reasons, this time. Zuko can’t resist pulling one of his new books out of the shopping bag they’ve been packed in and flipping it open, thumbing through the pages and seeing out specific passages as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve read them before?” Iroh asks.</p><p> </p><p>“Most of them,” Zuko answers without taking his eyes off of the print inside, “I had a lot of these at—“ He can’t make himself say the word <em> home, </em>and Iroh can’t blame him.</p><p> </p><p>Ozai’s home is no longer Zuko’s home, and hasn’t been for a long, long time. Iroh’s home isn’t Zuko’s home either, not yet…</p><p> </p><p>But Iroh wants it to be. Hopes that it can be.</p><p> </p><p>At the traffic lights, Iroh takes his eyes off the road to side-eye Zuko, relaxed in a way that Iroh hasn’t seen in years. He watches him and dares to think, for the first time since getting off the phone with his brother, that it’s going to be okay.</p><p> </p><p>That Iroh gets to keep him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Are you sure that this is the best way to do this?” Piandao asks, doubtful, even as he steps, silent like some giant cat, through Iroh’s front door. “If the kid wakes up, and I’m here and you’re not, he’s going to freak, and you know it.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh acknowledges his friend’s misgivings and continues to shrug on his dark jacket, slipping the flash drive that his brother wants so badly into his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>“If it comes to that,” he says, “Then tell him the truth. But if he knew, he would only worry.” And worse, Iroh knows, he would probably try and find some way to come along out of some sort of misguided protectiveness. That is unacceptable. “I shouldn’t be longer than an hour—he should sleep the whole time. It doesn’t sit well with me, to leave him in the house alone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Which is probably why you should just tell him what you’re doing,” Piandao says pointedly. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh ignores him.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell him in the morning, when it’s over and done with. You don’t—I can’t let him worry over something like this when there’s nothing he can do. I can’t do that to him.”</p><p> </p><p>“As long as you’re willing to deal with the consequences, if things don’t go how you want them to.”</p><p> </p><p>“If it comes to that, I will handle it. But right now, I’d like him to take his peace of mind where he can get it. He worries enough. I won’t take this time from him too.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao clearly disagrees but says nothing other than quietly requesting a text when it’s done, and he’s on his way back. The dishonesty doesn’t really sit well with Iroh, either, but the decision’s been made, and he’s sticking with it. He doesn’t have the luxury of changing his mind now.</p><p> </p><p>The address he’s been sent is across town, near a run down little park. It’s not a shock—Iroh’s not expecting to be met at Ozai’s home or any other kind of place where there would be a significant amount of foot traffic. </p><p> </p><p>It feels like a cliche to be doing this late at night, but the idea of meeting Ozai anywhere in broad daylight is laughable. Iroh hasn’t seen his brother in years, but he can’t help picturing him now as Zuko’s personal monster, tall and dark and faceless in a way that could only come from a child. </p><p> </p><p>A privilege that Zuko probably, <em> definitely</em>, doesn’t have.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh knows too well that when Zuko pictures his father, his image is all too clear.</p><p> </p><p>He shakes it off, pats for the shape of the flash drive in his pocket. Just to make sure that it’s there.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a dark car parked across the street.</p><p> </p><p>They’re not far, Iroh realizes, from the alleyway that he’d initially found Zuko in. It’s a thought that initially makes him feel sick, but strengthens into resolve moments later. That’s why he’s doing this, so that Zuko won’t ever have to worry about this again. So that he can go home and tell him that he’s free and that he’s going to be okay. </p><p> </p><p>So that he can say those things and not feel, in the back of his mind, like he’s lying.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh parks a quick block away and walks his way over to the dark car.</p><p> </p><p>The door opens soundlessly the moment that Iroh is close enough to see it. The backseat, naturally, because that’s something that hasn’t changed. Ozai’s never driven for himself if he could help it.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh slides into the car.</p><p> </p><p>There’s an opaque screen that separates the front seat from the back, plush, buttery leather seats, and plenty of leg room. Iroh hates all of it on principle.</p><p> </p><p>“I hope you appreciate the effort that this took, to expedite this process without getting the courts involved,” Ozai says instead of hello, shuffles through a leather bound folder in his lap.</p><p> </p><p>“You should appreciate the effort that it takes not to strangle you to death with my bare hands,” Iroh replies calmly, eyes the folder. “Is that all of it?”</p><p> </p><p>Ozai holds up a hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Your end of the bargain,” he says. His voice is flat, like this is nothing more than a business transaction. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s all his children ever were to him. Iroh remembers Zuko’s shy, anxious smile in the bookstore and feels like he could ignite. He stomps it down, burying flames underneath a layer of calm, cool lake water.</p><p> </p><p>He’s here for Zuko, he reminds himself. He’s here to keep him safe and to make sure that this man will never be able to touch him again. What’s Iroh’s pride when compared to Zuko’s safety? What’s pride ever done for any of them at all?</p><p> </p><p>Iroh holds up the drive, turns it over in the dim overhead light. Without a word he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and inserts the drive. It takes a moment before the directory pops up, and he scrolls down the list of files.</p><p> </p><p>“Satisfied, little brother?” Iroh asks. He doesn’t try and mask his disdain. “Give me that.” </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t wait before he’s plucking the folder out of Ozai’s hands, opening it and skimming the pages inside. Everything he asked for is there, signed, stamped, and notarized. Proof that it’s been pushed through the system (illegally) without involvement of the local court system, all of it under Iroh’s name. Zuko’s birth certificate and social security card. A stapled stack that proves to be vaccination history, eye exams, and dental records.</p><p> </p><p>“Is there anything else?” Iroh asks, frosty.</p><p> </p><p>“A box in the trunk.” Ozai extends a hand. “Hand it over, and get out of my car.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh reaches out, as if to drop the drive into his hand, and then pauses.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you ever care for him, Ozai? Even once?” He doesn’t mean to ask that question because he doesn’t want to know the answer. He already thinks that he knows. It comes out anyway. “Or have your children only ever been tools to you?”</p><p> </p><p>Ozai gives a hard little short—the first indication of actual emotion to come from him.</p><p> </p><p>“Always so soft and so stupid, Iroh,” he says. “Tools should be useful or they get thrown away.” He flexes his fingers. “Your sentiment is <em> already </em> getting dull. Take what you came for and consider our transaction over. Are we done here?”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh drops the drive into Ozai’s waiting hand. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re done,” he snaps, practically kicks open the car door in his haste to get out. Not out of any sort of fear, but from the trembling in his hands and the roar in his heart that demands blood for it. Again, he stomps it down.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t come this far to lose his head.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh has made a life out of playing smarter, not harder. He’s not going to mess it up now. Maybe he would for just himself, but not when Zuko’s the one on the line. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t see Ozai so much as move, but the trunk pops open anyway. A dented old shipping box has been stuffed into it, taped shut and halfway crushed by the hatch, haphazardly placed as if it doesn’t even matter. Iroh wrestles it out of the trunk and closes the lid with an aggressive slam that rattles the whole car.</p><p> </p><p>The car starts with a quiet rumble, washing Iroh in the red of headlights, and then he’s left alone in the street in the dark. The box and folder in his hands are the only indication that anything out of the ordinary has happened here.</p><p> </p><p>The walk back to the car feels longer than it is. </p><p> </p><p><em> It’s done. On my way back now</em>, he texts Piandao when he sets the box gently on the seat, slides the folder underneath it so that it won’t slip off, even goes so far as to buckle it in before fastening his own belt.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks that maybe he should open it to see what’s inside but thinks better of it. </p><p> </p><p>It’s Zuko’s box, and he should be the one to open it. Iroh already owes him an apology for going behind his back about all of this; the least he can do is let the boy open his own box. For safety’s sake, he gives it a quick rattle and hears nothing but the sound of papers and the light thud of what might be a book, a doodad or two. It’s not a large box, and it’s not heavy either. It doesn’t even feel <em> full </em>.</p><p> </p><p>That’s all Ozai kept of his son?</p><p> </p><p>Iroh thinks of the taped up boxes gathering dust in the hall closet, imagines consolidating Lu Ten into a single box as if he doesn’t matter, and nearly has to pull over for some deep breathing. Ozai is many things—more even than Iroh initially realized. Cold, definitely. Callous, probably from the day he was born. But also efficient and not a little bit impulsive.</p><p> </p><p>How long did he wait before removing his son’s presence from his life?</p><p> </p><p>Did he even do it himself or did he simply delegate the job to someone else?</p><p> </p><p>Iroh thinks about a stranger going through Ozai’s home and erasing Zuko from each room until all that’s left of him are scraps forgotten in closets, and it’s everything he has not to turn the car around and do something he might regret. Iroh has enough regrets, and absently reaches out to run a finger over the spine of the folder that pokes out from underneath the box.</p><p> </p><p>He did the job he came here to do.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko will never be compelled into going back to that man, and Iroh feels more secure than he has at any given moment since receiving that phone call from his nephew. Zuko is not okay, but he will be; Iroh can keep him safe. The thought is warm in his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>Years ago, when Natsu had come to him, bright and beaming and with her hands on her stomach, too soon to be showing yet, Iroh had expected to be scared. Parenthood was a scary thing; <em> responsibility </em>was a scary thing. Iroh had expected to be scared. The fear would come later but those first feelings were a whirlwind of joy that roared and sang and came to roost in his heart and had never really left, even when they had been joined by grief.</p><p> </p><p>Before that moment, he hadn’t known that such happiness could exist. </p><p> </p><p>What he feels now isn’t the same but isn’t all that different either.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a soft, silly move, but Iroh can’t help reaching out to pat the top of the cardboard box. It’s not a lot but, not unlike Iroh himself, hopefully it can be enough.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, there’s a screech of noise and a pair of headlights that shine into the windshield, bright and blinding. The other car’s going too fast and too purposeful, and Iroh shouts when he wrenches the wheel, veering off the road with a squeal of burning rubber and the crunch of metal and glass.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which the final chapter is the final chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here we are, nine chapters later. It’s been a wonderful journey and it’s been a long time since I’ve written a real, legitimate chaptered fic to completion, so I’m definitely proud of myself! It’s not the end of this particular universe—I have a few ideas for some follow up one-shots that I think I’ll die if I don’t get to write, so this isn’t the last you’ll see of this.</p><p>On another, slightly less exciting note, I have to let you all know that I’m putting a pause in my weekly update schedule. I have quite a few WIPs in progress and, uh, none of them are close to finished, and that combined with life being what it is and my mental health have me feeling a bit too close to a burnout for my liking. So I’ll definitely still be writing and posting on my tumblr (@sword-and-stars, if you’d ever like to send me an ask or slide into my dms), but I think I need to be a little gentler on myself and take a break for my brain’s sake.</p><p>Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your love and support and validation. I really hope that you’ve enjoyed this story. </p><p>I know that I have.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p><br/>Zuko jerks awake and slaps a hand over his eyes, as if that can make the quakes of phantom pain stop pulsing through him. It doesn’t really work. For a few minutes, all Zuko knows how to do is curl up under his blankets and tremble for a little bit until he can pull himself together. <em> It was just a bad dream</em>, he tells himself. A nightmare. It’s not real.</p><p> </p><p>(Except that it was real. Just because it didn’t happen <em> just then </em>doesn’t make it any less real.)</p><p> </p><p>He tucks his fingers into the holes of Lu Ten’s blanket and pulls it tightly around himself until he can’t move. He startles when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs, and the little niggle of guilt that pokes at him for breaking his promise to Uncle isn’t enough to stop him from going limp and still in bed.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s not good at a lot of things, but he’s <em> very </em>good at pretending to be asleep.</p><p> </p><p>The footsteps stop at his door, and Zuko hears the door open. He’s fully prepared to open his eyes and own up except that Uncle isn’t <em> alone </em> . There’s two sets of footsteps in the hall, and he can hear Uncle Iroh talking to... <em> someone. </em> Zuko doesn’t know who. He fakes it even harder, perfectly still and breathing just deep enough to pass for slumber. </p><p> </p><p>He hears Uncle come in. The other person doesn’t. They mumble something from the hall that Zuko can’t hear clearly, and then there’s a hand gently pushing his hair out of his face</p><p> </p><p>It’s only with a lot of practice that he doesn’t jump or jerk at the contact. Zuko’s still getting used to being touched in a way that doesn’t hurt.</p><p> </p><p>“Hopefully this doesn’t take too long,” Uncle says quietly to whoever’s in the hallway. They reply, again, too quietly to be heard.</p><p> </p><p>And then Uncle <em> leaves. </em></p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t just go downstairs, he leaves completely, down the stairs and out the <em> door </em>. Zuko can hear the car start up in the driveway, and when he rolls over and cracks his eyes open, he can see slivers of lights from the car’s headlights. They get brighter and then dim as the car pulls away. Then. Zuko’s left completely in darkness again.</p><p> </p><p>Alone.</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, <em> god</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Even wrapped up in that warm blanket, Zuko feels like he’s freezing.</p><p> </p><p>There’s someone in the house and Uncle’s gone. Uncle <em> left him </em> in the middle of the night and didn’t tell him where he was going, or what he was doing. He didn’t say when he’d be back, or why he was leaving so late at night. Zuko twists his fingers around each other and tries hard to make himself stop shaking. It doesn’t work.</p><p> </p><p>If Zuko closes his eyes and listens very, very hard, he can hear someone moving around downstairs. He wants to know who’s here, but at the same time he really, really doesn’t. He wants Uncle Iroh to come back.</p><p> </p><p>He wants him to not have left him in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko can’t stay here. </p><p> </p><p>He feels like he’s about to jump out of his skin, and he briefly (<em>very </em> briefly, because he might be stupid but, he’s not that stupid) considers trying to make it out the window to try and follow the car. That’s a stupid plan, though. A <em> really </em>stupid plan. Being stupid doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, when Zuko’s sure that the <em> someone </em> isn't going to come upstairs for him, he slides out of bed. The moment his feet hit carpet, he makes a beeline for the closet like a little ghost, darting inside with Lu Ten’s blanket clutched in trembling hands. It’s even darker in there but in a good way, and Zuko pushes his way past the clothes hanging from the bar to press himself hard into the corner. </p><p> </p><p>He wraps himself up tightly like that can protect him and tries as hard as he can to be silent and still, even as his heart feels like it’s going to break its way out of his ribcage.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t notice when he starts to shiver, just a little, a full body buzz that starts in his fingertips and goes through his bones. Zuko’s breathing, but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting any air.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s been left here, <em> alone</em>, and he doesn’t know what else to do.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>For a while, all Iroh can do is slump over the steering wheel and breathe hard and ragged. Only a miracle kept him from hitting a pole or a tree, and while he’s driven off the road, he’s missed the nearby ditch as well.</p><p> </p><p>Small favors.</p><p> </p><p>With buzzing hands, he turns the car off. He’s uninjured but his head’s pounding and there’s an ache in his sternum underneath the pressure of his seat belt. If he lifts it, Iroh is sure that there will be the beginnings of a nasty bruise.</p><p> </p><p>This was no accident.</p><p> </p><p>There’s not a single doubt in Iroh’s mind that he was run off the road on purpose. Not a single one.</p><p> </p><p>When he can, Iroh shoves open the driver’s side door and tries to keep from dry heaving at the side of the road. He’s okay, and the car is okay. Zuko is at home and sleeping, safe in Piandao’s care, <em> thank god</em>, but all Iroh can see right now is Lu Ten’s crumpled Camry in the junkyard, crushed like a soda can underneath somebody’s foot. </p><p> </p><p>Dry heaves turn abruptly into real, actual retches, but nothing comes up. Partially because Iroh hadn’t eaten much before meeting up with Ozai but also because he refuses to vomit on the side of the road over some attempted murder through sheer force of will. Murder. Unsuccessful murder, but still; that’s what it has to be, after all.</p><p> </p><p>It’s too convenient to be anything else, especially when there’s no sign of the other car except for black tire marks on the dark asphalt. Anyone else would have stopped.</p><p> </p><p>The car <em> is </em> okay, but that’s not to say that there isn’t still some damage. Iroh didn’t imagine the sound of cracking and crunching—there’s a deep gouge going down the entire passenger side of the car and the side mirror’s snapped clean off. The window in the backseat is shattered. Pieces of glass litter the backseat and Iroh makes a note to himself—the only thing besides the relief that Zuko <em> is not here for this </em> that can break through the haze, that he’ll need a rental.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh presses his hands flat on the undamaged driver’s side and pulls out a long, forcibly even breath. Now that the immediate feeling of danger and crisis has passed, a familiar burn is beginning to simmer in the pit of his stomach. Iroh had been willing, against his initial instincts, to let it all go. So relieved he’d been by Ozai’s cooperation that he’d decided, then and there, that he was washing his hands of all of it.</p><p> </p><p>He had Zuko and would be able to keep him safe and in that moment, it had been enough. It would <em> never </em>be enough but for right then, it had been. Perhaps the best revenge would be living well and getting that boy some help, making sure to reach out to his niece as well, to not let her slip through the cracks the way that Zuko had been allowed to, to do everything he can to help her without risking her either. At the time, that had been enough to wait for Ozai’s rope to lengthen enough to hang himself on.</p><p> </p><p>Not anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s not stupid. The moment he’d seen what was on that drive, he’d made copies for a situation just like this one. Ozai doesn’t have enough rope? Iroh has plenty to throw him.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh starts the car but doesn’t immediately drive home. </p><p> </p><p>It’s late but not that late, and it’s only with a moment’s pause that Iroh’s taking out his phone and dialing a number.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, old friend,” he says when the other line picks up and only quiet breathing is his greeting. “It’s been a while.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m through with all your dirty work, you ungrateful cretin. I don’t do that anymore.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Iroh sighs a little, unsurprised, and adjusts the phone against his ear. The Herbalist has always been a funny one, though she’s softened over the years from taking care of her granddaughter. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, yes, I know that you’ve been on the straight and narrow for the last decade,” he tells her indulgently. “How is young Miyuki doing these days?”</p><p> </p><p>“<em>None of your business. Wasn’t it your idea to never contact one another again except in case of emergency? I hope you know what the word emergency means.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“I would like to think that I do.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It means that you’d better not be calling for any goddamned favors. You helped me get out and I’m grateful for it, but that’s it. No more dirty work.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Yes.</em> I know, but hear me out. I have a proposition for you. It’s not an emergency, but I promise you, you’ll like it. Minimal risk, maximum satisfaction. Have I ever steered you wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>A wary, affirming noise is the only sound that proves he’s being listened to.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh adjusts his grip on his phone.</p><p> </p><p>“How would you like to help me ruin my brother’s life?”</p><p> </p><p>Dead silence that’s only broken, moments later, by howling laughter.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Piandao pads his way through Iroh’s downstairs before he finally settles down into a chair in the living room. It’s not like he hasn’t been here before but it’s different to be here so late and to be here alone.</p><p> </p><p>Well, not <em> alone</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He hears nothing coming from upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh had made sure that the boy was sleeping soundly before he’d left and seemed confident that Zuko would sleep through it all, but Piandao’s not so sure. The deception still doesn’t sit well with him but in the end, there’s nothing else that Piandao can really do except to step up and help his oldest friend in the ways that he can. Even if he’s sure that those particular ways are going to blow up in Iroh’s face.</p><p> </p><p>Huffing quietly to himself, Piandao reaches out to pick up the book set on the side table.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Psychic Detective of Ba Sing Se. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first one in the series, and Piandao hasn’t read them in years. It’s dogeared where Iroh left off, so he doesn’t feel bad at all about flipping it open and starting at the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>He’s halfway through chapter two when he stops reading.</p><p> </p><p>There’s no reason for it. No strange sounds or bumps from upstairs, no noises that could be from nightmares, but something niggles persistently in Piandao’s guts to get up and go check upstairs. </p><p> </p><p>It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to check.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a quick walk upstairs. Piandao pauses at the closed door and listens, hears nothing, not even so much as a rustle. He considers knocking but if the kid <em> is </em>sleeping, he doesn’t want to actually wake him up. So instead, he turns the knob and presses the door open in one silent, poking his head on and peering into the bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>A chill shoots down Piandao’s spine, and all of his insides slip down into his feet.</p><p> </p><p>The bed is <em> empty</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao resists the urge to swear and strides fully into the room. The bed is empty and so is the space underneath. Automatically his head jerks towards the window, but it’s closed and locked from the inside with no signs of tampering.</p><p> </p><p>The closet door is shut but Piandao looks to it anyway. He isn’t sure if it would be better or worse to open the door and find Zuko in there.</p><p> </p><p>At least he wouldn’t be missing. Piandao has to check.</p><p> </p><p>He slides the door open in one quick, smooth motion, and then several things happen at once.</p><p> </p><p>One, a shoebox that feels like it’s full of rocks but turns out to contain a stockpile of batteries and flashlights drops from the ceiling directly onto Piandao’s head with a loud crash.</p><p> </p><p>Two, one half of a pair of converse flies at his face.</p><p> </p><p>Three, in the time it takes for him to duck the shoe and reorient from the batteries, Piandao’s legs are being kicked out from under him. He drops to the floor with a startled swear.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Motherfu—</em>“</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> shit</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Piandao looks up and sees Zuko, barely a dark shadow in the dark closet, eyes huge and blazing in his pale face, clutching onto the other shoe in a white knuckled grip. He has no doubt that if he <em> had </em> been a stranger, Zuko would not hesitate to do everything in his power to make him either unconscious or dead. Like this, still frightened but desperate enough to fight someone twice his size, Zuko will do what he has to.</p><p> </p><p>As the situation stands, the kid mostly just looks a little mortified.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?” Piandao asks from the floor and makes no attempt to get up. Even from here, he can see that Zuko’s hands are shaking.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you here?” Tumbles out of Zuko’s mouth instead of an answer. He’s very, very still except for the buzzing in his hands. His face is white.</p><p> </p><p>Too white.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re fine,” he says. “Take a second.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko taking a second takes longer than a second. He gives only a moment of warning before he sways.</p><p> </p><p>“Kid, you’d better sit down before you—“</p><p> </p><p>Too late. Zuko drops as suddenly as he’d acted, knees hitting the floor as the adrenaline drains out of him. Piandao can’t just leave him like that. He doesn’t get up, but scoots forward to him with hands outstretched.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Zuko feels <em> awful.</em></p><p> </p><p>Not just because he made a solid attempt to take out Uncle Iroh’s business partner with a pair of shoes and a box of crap, but because it doesn’t change that Uncle’s still <em> gone </em> . He’d hoped, almost, in a horrible misplaced way, that when the closet had opened and his trap had sprung, that the shout of surprise would be <em> Uncle’s</em>, but it wasn’t.</p><p> </p><p>He should be relieved that at least Piandao isn’t a <em> stranger</em>, but he’s not. Zuko’s stomach hurts, twisting inside his body when his knees give out and he sags to the floor like some fainting princess. His head throbs.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko used to be able to ignore his discomfort, but now he’s been spoiled with care and he <em> can’t, </em> and Uncle is <em> gone.</em></p><p> </p><p>Big, strong hands manage to peel him up off of the floor and into a sitting position, even as Zuko’s encouraged to tip his head forward.</p><p> </p><p>“Breathe, kid. Your uncle’s fine; he just had a thing that he had to do, and didn’t want to leave you alone at night.”</p><p> </p><p>That...doesn’t make Zuko feel better. That very solidly does not make Zuko feel better at all.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did he go?” Zuko means for the question to come out stronger than it does, like he’s not a scared little baby who can’t function without someone to hold his hand. It doesn’t, though. His voice comes out tiny and worried and he hates it. One of Piandao’s hands rubs firmly over the top of Zuko’s head.</p><p> </p><p>Despite it all, the touch feels <em> safe. </em>It’s not the one he wants, but it's safe.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko manages to look up and sees the man eyeballing his anxious hands. There’s still a shake in them that no amount of twisting or wringing can settle.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao sighs and rubs at his forehead. There’s a patch of red where the corner of the box got him, and another from a stray battery. The combination of worry and shame is nauseating, and Zuko presses his hands to his middle and curls into himself a little tighter.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you hungry? I feel like eating your uncle out of house and home. We’ll talk about it after.”</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is <em> always </em>hungry.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Parking the car in the driveway is a relief.</p><p> </p><p>It feels like both the start and end of something, and Iroh feels something come loose inside him at the sight of his home. <em> Zuko’s </em> home. All Iroh wants to do is go inside, check on his kid, and possibly nurse a stiff drink, in that order. Iroh unbuckles the box, tucking the folder of documents under his arm as he does so. He’ll have to get the car repaired tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a lot he has to do tomorrow, starting with coming clean to Zuko, with a resolve to be honest going forward.</p><p> </p><p>He opens the front door and has just enough time to set down the things in his arms before there’s a flurry of motion and a thundering of noise. Zuko hurtles down the stairs like a rocket and flings himself into Iroh’s arms, gripping him tightly around the middle.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh rocks back on his heels, feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of him. It doesn’t stop him from immediately hugging him back.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao follows at a pace that’s brisk but more tempered. No less urgent.</p><p> </p><p>“Zuko, are you okay? You should be asleep.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m putting this out here now,” Piandao says drily, a scathingly judgemental expression on his face, “That I told you so. I did. Multiple times. I told you so.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh looks down at his nephew in concern. Gold eyes stare back at him for the briefest of moments before Zuko looks away, tipping his face into Iroh’s shoulder. It shouldn’t have been possible, but he manages to squeeze even harder.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m so <em> mad </em> at you!” Zuko whisper-snarls into Iroh’s shirt. He sounds furious, he does, but also a bit like he’s about to cry. “You just <em> left </em> me. You left me, and I didn’t know where you were.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh doesn’t need any help feeling bad for lying, but right now he’s just so relieved to see him that all he can do is let Zuko’s hurt, angry words settle into him and live there. Zuko can be as angry as he likes for long as he likes, as long as he’s <em> here </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Iroh says softly, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t—“ Zuko pulls away and scrubs angrily at the moisture on his face. Iroh has spent enough time with prideful children to not call him on it. “I wasn’t worried; I’m <em> pissed</em>. You’re not—<em>allowed</em>, okay? I’m not a baby.”</p><p> </p><p>He looks so indignant that it takes every drop of seriousness that Iroh has not to at least crack a smile. He manages but it’s a near miss, even as Piandao covers his face in the background and wheezes silently into his palms.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko can be as mad as he wants, Iroh decides, as long as he’s here and safe and loved.</p><p> </p><p>“I have so much to tell you,” he says kindly, and pries Zuko’s white-knuckled fingers out of the fabric of his shirt enough to maneuver him into an easier, gentler hold. Zuko’s anger is gone as quickly as it ignites, and he allows Iroh his own need to be a bit clingy. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t lie to me anymore,” Zuko insists, his voice muffled in fabric. “Okay? You can’t lie to me. It’s mean and—and <em> rude</em>. You can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>The only response Iroh can have to that is to reach out with both hands to frame Zuko’s cheeks, to lean forward and press a kiss to the top of his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Deal.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>(It’s a long time before either of them sleep that night.</p><p> </p><p>Piandao excuses himself after Iroh’s return but not without pulling him aside to firmly inform him, “You are never, ever doing that to either of us again. I will not be put in that situation again, do you understand me?” Iroh has no doubts of his seriousness but the warmth of his friend’s gruff concern lingers anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Iroh takes every paper out of the leather folder and spreads them out on the kitchen table for Zuko to look over. He does, reaching out and picking each document up piece by piece in tentative hands.</p><p> </p><p>“What...does this mean?” Zuko asks eventually, his voice very small. “Why are you showing me all this?”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh’s heart hurts, not just because this is something that needs to be spelled out, but also because he’s so full of love that he can’t stand it.</p><p> </p><p>“It means that you never have to go back to that man again, Zuko. It means that this can be your home until you’re old enough to leave, if that’s what you want. Or stay. I know—“ The lump in Iroh’s throat makes it hard to get the words out. “I know that it doesn’t truly—truly <em> fix </em>anything, but you’re safe, and you’re going to be okay, and you don’t have to go anywhere. I know that it isn’t enough.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s when Zuko looks up from where his hands are clutching onto paper, clutching them so tightly that they’ll definitely crinkle. Neither of them care. His eyes are huge and a little bit glassy and a little bit wet.</p><p> </p><p>He sniffles and when he speaks, the words come out hoarse.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s enough.” Zuko tears his eyes away from Iroh’s face, back down to his birth certificate, his vaccination records, his life and existence boiled down to ink on paper. “It’s more than enough.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s not, Iroh decides. It isn’t and won’t ever be. But now he has the time to keep trying.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan three days later.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko’s in the kitchen up to his elbows in merengue when the story breaks, and Teruko thunders up to Iroh, phone outstretched. She looks like she can’t decide whether to be worried, furious, or ecstatic.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this for real?” She asks, handing her phone over. She’s not supposed to have it out on shift but that hasn’t stopped her before and it won’t stop her now. “Please tell me that this is the baby’s shitty dad.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh examines the headline and presses play on the video. A feed that shows Ozai being forcibly hauled out of his house and into a police car after an anonymous tip was called into every police department and news outlet in the country. The feed itself doesn’t have audio except for the journalists’ frantic commentary but Iroh can see him shouting something. </p><p> </p><p>Iroh thinks about his boy, safe and sound, for real, for the first time in years, and the dragon living in his chest curls up and purrs. Maybe in another world he would feel something other than smug satisfaction but in this one? </p><p> </p><p>All that he knows how to feel right now is pride.</p><p> </p><p>Teruko’s still watching him and waiting for his reaction. Iroh smiles at her.</p><p> </p><p>“It is, in fact.” They watch the news segment together for a few more minutes, even after one of Teruko’s orders comes up and she ignores it. “Couldn’t have happened to a better man.” Iroh hands the phone back to her. “I have a feeling that he won’t be having much to look forward to for a long, long time.”</p><p> </p><p>Teruko is a sweet, cheerful young lady, relentlessly likeable even when giving lip, collecting tips from customers even when doing her job with a bare minimum of effort. Iroh knows this about her and even so, the expression that makes a home on her face is spiteful and viciously pleased. He’s never seen it before and approves of it regardless.</p><p> </p><p>“Good,” Teruko says, with a ferocious satisfaction. She watches the newscast for a few moments more before slipping her phone back into her pocket. “<em>Good</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Iroh is inclined to agree.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It’s July.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko sees three different therapists before he finds one that he likes, finally manages to tell Iroh his favorite color without going through the stages of grief trying to come up with the ‘right’ answer, and gets glasses. It’s hot most days and it rains a lot, and when Zuko isn’t in the shop helping Piandao, Iroh lets him stay at home by himself, as long as he checks in every few hours.</p><p> </p><p>More than once, Iroh comes home in the middle of a thunderstorm to find his nephew in the swing on the porch, curled up with a book in his hands. They settle into a routine that works, and slowly, Zuko begins to sleep through the night with greater frequency. He still has nightmares often, but is less afraid to talk about them. His therapist recommended journaling about them, which has so far been helping.</p><p> </p><p>Ozai goes to jail with little chance of getting out, and most of June is spent working through guardianship and visitation agreements with his niece’s private school until everything can be finalized for the following school year.</p><p> </p><p>She needs care as badly as Zuko does.</p><p> </p><p>In August, Zuko will start the seventh grade.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko complains about his glasses making him look like a nerd, and lets Fuyumi trim his hair that he refuses to cut short and starts going to bed barefoot. Iroh buys him books until the small shelf overflows and when he does, they go to IKEA to buy a bigger one.</p><p> </p><p>He begins wearing his own clothes more often than not.</p><p> </p><p>Together, they paint his bedroom and on a Tuesday night, Zuko wakes up from a nightmare and instead of holeing himself up in his closet to ride it out or wait to be checked on, wakes up his uncle instead. Iroh brews a pot of chamomile tea, and Zuko sips at it without protest, even though he hates it and says that it tastes like chewing on a dandelion even with a spoonful of honey stirred in.</p><p> </p><p>Time goes on, and Zuko is not okay.</p><p> </p><p>Zuko is not okay, but Zuko gets better.</p><p> </p><p>They have time enough.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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